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Poor Man's Rock by Bertrand W. Sinclair
page 16 of 320 (05%)
whistling sound where her brass-shod stem split it like a knife. She
slowed down from this trainlike speed, stopped, picked up a mooring,
made fast. The swell from her rolled in, swashing heavily on the beach.

The man in the rowboat turned his attention to the cruiser. There were
people aboard to the number of a dozen, men and women, clustered on her
flush afterdeck. He could hear the clatter of their tongues, low ripples
of laughter, through all of which ran the impatient note of a male voice
issuing peremptory orders.

The cruiser blew her whistle repeatedly,--shrill, imperative blasts. The
man in the rowboat smiled. The air was very still. Sounds carry over
quiet water as if telephoned. He could not help hearing what was said.

"Wise management," he observed ironically, under his breath.

The power yacht, it seemed, had not so much as a dinghy aboard.

A figure on the deck detached itself from the group and waved a
beckoning hand to the rowboat.

The rower hesitated, frowning. Then he shrugged his shoulders and pulled
out and alongside. The deck crew lowered a set of steps.

"Take a couple of us ashore, will you?" He was addressed by a short,
stout man. He was very round and pink of face, very well dressed, and by
the manner in which he spoke to the others, and the glances he cast
ashore, a person of some consequence in great impatience.

The young man laid his rowboat against the steps.
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