"Oh, yes ... the New York and the Atlantic. There is bunting below, but I do not fly it because I am merely a parasite ... a pilot-fish." Hermione did not answer, for their pace was a smart one and she had need of breath. Presently she asked:-- "How about the tide?" "It is running flood out here," said Applebo, "otherwise I would not have let you swim. We are in the deep channel now, and the tide is helping. I've been gauging our drift on the shore." The thought of the cold fathoms beneath sent no slightest chill through Hermione. She was too much a part of it all. Neither was she tired in the least. They were nearly abreast of the yawl, but seaward. Neither had suggested stopping there. Hermione looked at her companion and wondered how far he could tow her if required. Seized by a sudden impulse, she said:-- "I think that I will rest a little, please." He was close to her in two powerful strokes that sent the water swirling in his wake, as though he had been a porpoise. His eyes gave her a swift, questioning look. "Take my shoulder," he said. "Do you want to go to the yawl?" "No," replied Hermione, and laid her hand on the bare, flashing shoulder offered her. "Paddle a little so as not to get chilled," said Applebo, and started unconcernedly ahead. The tug of the heavy muscles under her hand reminded Hermione of the sensation one gets in laying the palm upon the shoulder of a galloping hunter. There was the same iron contraction, tense and quivering, to be followed by the quick relaxation, the whole evenly spaced and rhythmic as the throb of an engine. It seemed impossible that the splendid, human machine could ever tire. For several minutes she clung, resting and revelling also in the sense of being borne onward without effort. But she was not actually fatigued, and presently released her hold. "Rested...?" he asked, looking back. "Quite." "Good for the rest of the voyage?" "Yes ... and if I am not, you are. Why did you never go in for athletics?" "They do not interest me. Games always made me feel like a performing lion." It occurred to Hermione that they must have made him rather look like one also. "Football?" she asked. "I tried it ... but I used to get thinking and forget to play. Besides, I do not like to get banged about ... that is, merely for vanity. If it were to get something I wanted, it would be different." Hermione did not reply. She watched him curiously as he lounged along. Applebo looked back and smiled. His eyes reflected the swirling green; his hair was the colour of the golden-brown sea-weed and suggested this substance as one sees it trailing from a rock in a clear tide-way. He looked more than ever like a Triton, thought the girl. All he needed was a shell-trumpet and a trident. She wondered if so pagan a creature could possess the elements of real, human feeling. At least, she confessed a little ruefully, he could arouse them!