"Close shave, heh?" he muttered.

"Yes," replied Blake. He drew in a deep breath, and added, "Not the
first, though, nor the last. But a miss is as good as a mile, hey,
Jimmy boy?"

"Gad, old man, that sounds natural! Can't say you look it, though--not
altogether. Must get you aboard and into another style of fine
raiment. Fur trousers not good form in this climate, y'know. You
picked up that shirt at a remnant counter, I take it. Come aboard.
Must mow that alfalfa patch before any one suspects you're trying to
raise a beard."

The friendly banter seemed to have the contrary effect from that
intended. Blake's face darkened.

"Good Lord, no!" he rumbled. "Go aboard with her? What d'you take me
for?"

"Give you my word, I don't take you at all," replied the puzzled
Englishman.

"What! Hasn't she told you? But of course she wouldn't--unless she saw
you alone," muttered Blake. "Come on up the canon. I've thought it all
out--just what must be done. But it'll take some time to explain.
Wait! Did you come alone?--any one follow you?"

"No. Told 'em to stay near the boat."