"I thought the country was dry," said Ardita disdainfully. "Have you been drinking finger-nail enamel? You better get off this yacht!" "What?" the young man's voice expressed incredulity. "Get off the yacht! You heard me!" He looked at her for a moment as if considering what she had said. "No," said his scornful mouth slowly; "No, I won't get off the yacht. You can get off if you wish." Going to the rail he gave a curt command and immediately the crew of the rowboat scrambled up the ladder and ranged themselves in line before him, a coal-black and burly darky at one end and a miniature mulatto of four feet nine at to other. They seemed to be uniformly dressed in some sort of blue costume ornamented with dust, mud, and tatters; over the shoulder of each was slung a small, heavy-looking white sack, and under their arms they carried large black cases apparently containing musical instruments. "'Ten-SHUN!" commanded the young man, snapping his own heels together crisply. "Right DRISS! Front! Step out here, Babe!" The smallest Negro took a quick step forward and saluted. "Yas-suh!" "Take command, go down below, catch the crew and tie 'em up--all except the engineer. Bring him up to me. Oh, and pile those bags by the rail there." "Yas-suh!" Babe saluted again and wheeling about motioned for the five others to gather about him. Then after a short whispered consultation they all filed noiselessly down the companionway. "Now," said the young man cheerfully to Ardita, who had witnessed this last scene in withering silence, "if you will swear on your honor as a flapper--which probably isn't worth much--that you'll keep that spoiled little mouth of yours tight shut for forty-eight hours, you can row yourself ashore in our rowboat." "Otherwise what?" "Otherwise you're going to sea in a ship." With a little sigh as for a crisis well passed, the young man sank into the settee Ardita had lately vacated and stretched his arms lazily. The corners of his mouth relaxed appreciatively as he looked round at the rich striped awning, the polished brass, and the luxurious fittings of the deck. His eye felt on the book, and then on the exhausted lemon. "Hm," he said, "Stonewall Jackson claimed that lemon-juice cleared his head. Your head feel pretty clear?" Ardita disdained to answer. "Because inside of five minutes you'll have to make a clear decision whether it's go or stay." He picked up the book and opened it curiously. "The Revolt of the Angels. Sounds pretty good. French, eh?" He stared at her with new interest. "You French?" "No." "What's your name?" "Farnam." "Farnam what?" "Ardita Farnam." "Well Ardita, no use standing up there and chewing out the insides of your mouth. You ought to break those nervous habits while you're young. Come over here and sit down."