He stooped again, and this time he got it. He straightened up with it in his hand. The car was still on the bank and a boat was putting out from the shore. All seemed to be well. "They'll bribe the motorman to wait," said Ferd. "I told Riley to. So you see, little girl, everything's all right. Here's the bag and there's the boat. Do you like me a little bit again?" I felt rather queer, alone there on the island with him; and the only thing that occurred to me was to keep him down. "I'll like you well enough when we get back to civilization," I said shortly. "You're not like yourself, Fanny. You aren't a bit kind to me." "Being nice to you with everybody round is one thing. This is another. I'm scared, Ferd." "Not of me!" he said, getting hold of one of my hands. He looked horrid in the moonlight, with his collar in a crease and his coat stuck to him. He looked awfully thin, too, and his hair was in straggles over his face. "Fan, the boat's coming and I never see you alone. Do say you care a little bit!" Well, I had to play the game. I am not a quitter. I had let him get up the party and spend a lot of money, and I had pretended for months to be interested in him. What was I to do? You may say what you like--a lot of married women get into things they never meant to simply because they are kind-hearted and hate to be called quitters. "I've always cared a little," I said, trying not to look at him. "Ferd, you're dripping! Don't touch me!" "Lady-love!" cried Ferd, very close to my ear; and then: "Good gracious, Fan! Where's the boat?" It had absolutely disappeared! Ferd stood up on the shaky dock and peered over the water. "He's gone to the other island," he said after a moment. "They'll tell him he's wrong, but--time's passing!" He did not start the lady-love business again, and we sat side by side on the dock, with the river, damp and smelly, underfoot. It was very silent, save for the far-away yells of the puddlers on the next island and the drip-drip from Ferd's trouser-ends to the water below. Somehow the snap was gone out of the whole thing. I hated it, being alone with him there, and his looking so mussy, and my vanity case soaking from the river. I hated the puddlers' picnic; there was nothing I didn't hate. And the boatman did not come. Even Ferd began to get anxious. "The infernal fool!" he said. "He's probably joined the picnic, and----Hello, there!" he called, with his hands to his mouth. I think they heard us on the bank, for we could hear the trolley bell very faintly. And, immediately after, the car moved off! I had the most awful feeling. We sat on the boards watching it getting smaller and smaller down the river, and neither of us said anything. It had been our one tie, as you may say, to respectability and home--and it had deserted us. After a minute Ferd got up on his feet.