With the tide to help me I made good progress, but, even at that, it took me some time to overtake the drifting craft. She was, as Ben had said, a lap-streaked, keel-bottomed dingy--good enough as a yacht's tender or in deep water, but the worst boat in the world to row about Denboro bay at low tide. Her high rail caught what breeze there was blowing and this helped to push her along. However, I got within easy hailing distance after a while and called, over my shoulder, to ask what was the matter. A man's voice answered me. “We've lost an oar,” he shouted. “We're drifting out to sea. Lend us a hand, will you?” “All right,” I answered. “I'll be there in a minute.” Within the minute I was almost alongside. Then I turned, intending to speak again; but I did not. The two persons in the dingy were Victor--I did not know his other name--and Mabel Colton. I was wearing the oilskin slicker and had pulled down the brim of my sou'wester to keep the sun from my eyes; therefore they had not recognized me before. And I, busy at the oars and looking over my shoulder only occasionally, had not recognized them. Now the recognition was mutual. Miss Colton spoke first. “Why, Victor!” she said, “it is--” “What?” asked her companion. Then, looking at me, “Oh! it's you, is it?” I did not answer. Luck was certainly against me. No matter where I went, on land or water, I was fated to meet these two. Victor, apparently, was thinking the same thing. “By Jove!” he observed; “Mabel, we seem destined to . . . Humph! Well? Will you give us a hand?” The most provoking part of it was that, if I had known who was in that rowboat, I could have avoided the encounter. Ben Small could have gone to their rescue just as well as I. However, here I was, and here they were. And I could not very well go away and leave them, under the circumstances. Victor's patience was giving way. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Aren't you going to help us? We'll pay you for it.” I pulled the skiff a little closer and, drawing in my oars, turned and picked up the slack of my anchor rope. “Here,” I said, brusquely; “catch this line and I'll tow you.” I tossed him the loop of rope and he caught it. “What shall I do with it?” he asked. “Hold it, just as it is, for the present. What became of your other oar?” “Lost it overboard.” “Why didn't you throw over your anchor and wait where you were?” I think he had not thought of the anchor, but he did not deign to explain. Instead he began pulling on the rope and the two boats drew together. “Don't do that,” I said. “Wait.” I untied the rope, where it was made fast to the skiff's bow, and with it and the anchor in my hands, scrambled aft and wedged the anchor under the stern thwart of the little craft. “Now,” I said, “you can pull in the slack until you get to the end. Then make it fast to your bow somewhere.”