It has been decided that the little party shall go aboard after supper, by the light of the young moon, which will be nearly overhead.

Two boats have been engaged to wait for them at the quay.

It is at this time Sir Lionel hopes to make his point, and to accomplish it he does not hesitate to descend to a low plane, and even imperil human life.

When they reach the quay a breeze is blowing, but not strong enough to cause any uneasiness.

The party place their luggage in one boat.

Then comes a pretty piece of by-play that really reflects credit upon the engineering skill of the soldier, for it is his hand that pulls the strings.

Lady Ruth steps into one boat.  One of the men having stopped John to ask him something, the colonel is given a chance to occupy the same boat, and, when Doctor Chicago arrives, he is told by the boatman that this craft having two passengers, and being smaller than the other, can carry no more.

Sir Lionel as they push off sings out to him, pleasantly: 

“A Roland for an Oliver, Chicago.”

John smothers his chagrin and enters the other, boat with Aunt Gwen and the professor.  After all, it is only for a brief time, and surely he can afford to give Sir Lionel that pleasure.

Thus they set out.

Lady Ruth appears to be in good spirits, for they can hear her voice in song, blending with the bass of the baronet, floating over the waves, which are really rougher than any of them had anticipated.

The lights of the steamer can be seen, and they head for her.

Suddenly the song ceases to float across the water.  It comes so suddenly to a stop that John Craig sits up in the other boat and clutches the arm of the professor.

“Listen!  I thought I heard a slight scream.”

“Nonsense!” exclaims Aunt Gwen.

“That British prig—­”

“Sir Lionel is a gentleman.  He would not sully his reputation by a word or deed.”

“There—­again.”

“That time I heard it, too.  Boatman, bend to your oars, and pull.  There is something wrong with the other boat,” cries the professor.

Then across the bounding waters comes a hail, in the lion-like voice of the Briton.  A hail that stirs the blood in their veins until it runs like molten lava—­a hail that tells of danger.

“Ho! there, this way, quick!  We’re sinking! sprung aleak!”

Such is the cry that comes to them.

All are at once alarmed.  The boatman is pulling well, but, to John’s excited fancy, it seems as though they hardly move.

He springs up, and takes one of the oars.

“Professor, mind the helm!” he cries.

“Ay, ay!” sings out that worthy, adapting himself immediately to the situation.

The young American is hardly an athlete, although he belongs to one of
Chicago’s best boat clubs.

He has an incentive now which causes him to strain every muscle, and under the united strength of two men the boat dances over the billows in the quarter whence the cry of help was heard.