desperately keen, and he did not feel like taking a great deal of
trouble to satisfy it. At all events he was not going to do any
spying, if that was what Hilliard wanted, for he did not for a
moment accept that smuggling theory. But when they were in the
neighborhood he supposed it would be permissible to call and see
the Coburns. Miss Coburn had seemed lonely. It would be decent
to try to cheer her up. They might invite her on board, and have
tea and perhaps a run up the river. He seemed to visualize the
launch moving easily between the tree-clad banks, Hilliard attending
to the engine and steering, he and the brown-eyed girl in the
taffrail, or the cockpit, or the well, or whatever you sat in on a
motor boat. He pictured a gloriously sunny afternoon, warm and
delightful, with just enough air made by the movement to prevent it
being too hot. It would . . .

Hilliard's voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized his
friend had been speaking for some time.

"She's over-engined, if anything," he was saying, "but that's all
to the good for emergencies. I got fifteen knots out of her once,
but she averages about twelve. And good in a sea-way, too. For
her size, as dry a boat as ever I was in."

"What size is she?" asked Merriman.

"Thirty feet, eight feet beam, draws two feet ten. She'll go down
any of the French canals. Two four-cylinder engines, either of
which will run her. Engines and wheel amidships, cabin aft, decked
over. Oh, she's a beauty. You'll like her, I can tell you."