There was not a pint of gasolene aboard the Comfort; and it would be my cheerful duty to inform my passenger of the fact! She did not wait for me to break the news. She saw me standing there, holding the gauge stick in my hand, and she asked the natural question. “What is the matter?” she demanded. I swallowed the opinion of Mr. Rogers which was on the tip of my tongue. “I am sorry,” I stammered, “but--but--well, we are in trouble, I am afraid.” “In trouble?” she said coldly. “What trouble do you mean?” “Yes. The fact is, we have run out of gasolene. I told my man, Rogers, to fill the tank and he hasn't done it.” She leaned forward to look at me. “Hasn't done it?” she repeated. “You mean--why, this boat cannot go without gasolene, can it?” “Not very well; no.” “Then--then what are we going to do?” “Anchor and wait, if I can.” “Wait! But I don't wish to wait. I wish to be taken home, at once.” “I am sorry, but I am afraid that is impossible.” I was on my way forward to where the anchor lay, in the bow. She rose and stepped in front of me. “Mr. Paine.” “Yes, Miss Colton.” “I tell you I do not wish you to anchor this boat.” “I am sorry but it is the only thing to do, under the circumstances.” “I do not wish it. Stop! I tell you I will not have you anchor.” “Miss Colton, we must do one of two things, either anchor or drift. And if we drift I cannot tell you where we may be carried.” “I don't care.” “I do.” “Yes,” with scornful emphasis, “I presume you do.” “What do you mean?” “I mean--never mind what I mean.” “But, as I have explained to you, the gasolene--” “Nonsense! Do you suppose I believe that ridiculous story?” “Believe it?” I gazed at her uncomprehendingly. “Believe it,” I repeated. “Don't you believe it?” “No.” “Miss Colton, do you mean that you think I am not telling you the truth? That I am lying?” “Well,” fiercely, “and if I did, would it be so astonishing, considering--considering the TRUTHS you have told me before?” I made no further effort to pass her. Instead I stepped back. “Would you mind telling me,” I demanded, with deliberate sarcasm, “what possible reason you think I might have for wishing to keep you here?” “I shall tell you nothing. And--and I will not have you anchor this boat.” “Is it your desire then that we drift--the Lord knows where?” “I desire you to start that engine and take me home.” “I cannot start the engine.” “I don't believe it.” For a moment I hesitated. Then I did what was perhaps the most senseless thing I ever did in all my life, which is saying considerable. I turned my back on her and on the anchor, and seated myself once more in the stern sheets. And we drifted.