“My lashin’s held—­I cal’lated they would.  Soon’s I was sure of that I grabbed up the oar and shoved it over the stern between the floats.  I hoped I could round her to after we passed the mouth of the Cut-through, and make port on the inside beach.  But not in that tide.  Inside of five minutes I see ’twas no use; we was bound across the bay.

“And now commenced a v’yage that beat any ever took sence Noah’s time, I cal’late; and even Noah never went to sea in an automobile, though the one animal I had along was as much trouble as his whole menagerie.  Billings was howlin’ blue murder.

“‘Stop that bellerin’!’ I ordered.  ’Quit it, d’you hear!  You’ll have the station crew out after us, and they’ll guy me till I can’t rest.  Shut up!  If you don’t, I’ll—­I’ll swim ashore and leave you.’

“I was takin’ big chances, as I look at it now.  He might have drawed a bowie knife or a lasso on me; ‘cordin’ to his yarns he’d butchered folks for a good sight less’n that.  But he kept quiet this time, only gurglin’ some when the ark tilted.  I had time to think of another idee.  You remember the dory sail, mast and all, was alongside that cart.  I clewed up the canvas well as I could and managed to lash the mast up straight over the auto’s bows.  Then I shook out the sail.

“‘Here!’ says I, turnin’ to Billings.  ’You hang on to that sheet.  No, you needn’t nuther.  Make it fast to that cleat alongside.’

“I couldn’t see his face plain, but his voice had a funny tremble to it; reminded me of my own when I climbed out of that very cart after he’d jounced me down to Setuckit the day before.

“‘What?’ he says.  ’Wh-what?  What sheet?  I don’t see any sheet.  What do you want me to do?’

“’Tie this line to that cleat.  That cleat there!  Cleat, you lubber!  Cleat!  That knob!  Make it fast!  Oh, my gosh t’mighty!  Get out of my way!’

“The critter had tied the sheet to the handle of the door instead of the one I meant, and the pull of the sail hauled the door open and pretty nigh ripped it off the hinges.  I had to climb into the cockpit and straighten out the mess.  I was losin’ my temper; I do hate bunglin’ seamanship aboard a craft of mine.

“‘But what’ll become of us?’ begs Billings.  ‘Will we drown?’

“‘What in tunket do we want to drown for?  Ain’t we got a good sailin’ breeze and the whole bay to stay on top of—­fifty foot of water and more?’

“‘Fifty foot!’ he yells.  ’Is there fifty foot of water underneath us now?  Pard, you don’t mean it!’

“‘Course I mean it.  Good thing, too!’

“‘But fifty foot!  It’s enough to drown in ten times over!’

“’Can’t drown but once, can you?  And I’d just as soon drown in fifty foot as four—­ruther, ’cause ‘twouldn’t take so long.’

“He didn’t answer out loud; but I heard him talkin’ to himself pretty constant.

“We was well out in the bay by now, and the seas was a little mite more rugged—­nothin’ to hurt, you understand, but the floats was all foam, and once in a while we’d ship a little spray.  And every time that happened Billings would jump and grab for somethin’ solid—­sometimes ’twas the upholstery and sometimes ’twas me.  He wa’n’t on the thwart, but down in a heap on the cockpit floor.