gained a p'int or two, and Todd wa'n't more'n four pitchforks in the
lead.

"Make for the launch!" I whooped, between my hands.

The parson heard me and come about and broke for the shore. The Greased
Lightning had swung out about the length of her anchor rope, and the
water wa'n't deep. Todd splashed in to his waist and climbed aboard. He
cut the roding just as Lonesome reached tide mark. James, he sees it's a
close call, and he shins back to the engine, reaching it exactly at the
time when the gent with the pitchfork laid hands on the rail. Then the
parson throws over the switch--I'd shown him how, you remember--and
gives the starting wheel a full turn.

Well, you know the Greased Lightning? She don't linger to say farewell,
not any to speak of, she don't. And this time she jumped like the cat
that lit on the hot stove. Lonesome, being balanced with his knees on
the rail, pitches headfust into the cockpit. Todd, jumping out of his
way, falls overboard backward. Next thing anybody knew, the launch was
scooting for blue water like a streak of what she was named for, and the
hunting chaplain was churning up foam like a mill wheel.

I yelled more orders than second mate on a coaster. Todd bubbled and
bellered. Lonesome hung on to the rail of the cockpit and let his hair
stand up to grow. Nobody was cool but Clarissa, and she was an iceberg.
She had her good p'ints, that old maid did, drat her!

"James," she calls, "get out of that water this minute and come here!
This instant, mind!"