My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay.  And, say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid!  Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,—­young chaps in white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old guys in white flannels and yachtin’ caps, even old ladies dressed sporty and comf’table—­and more square feet of sunburn than would cover Union Square.  I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin’.

As everyone was either comin’ from or goin’ to the docks, I wanders down there too, and loafs around watchin’ the steamers arrive, and the big sailin’ yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats dodgin’ around in the choppy water.  There’s a crisp, salty breeze that’s makin’ the flags snap, the sun’s shinin’ bright, and take it altogether it’s some brilliant scene.  Only I’m on the outside peekin’ in.

“What’s the use?” thinks I.  “I’m off my beat up here.”

Fin’lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches was comin’ in thick.  I must have been there near an hour, swappin’ never a word with anybody, and gettin’ lonesomer by the minute, when in from the harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin’ at the float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump.  At the wheel I gets sight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on his face.  Also he’s wearin’ a striped blazer.

“Young Hollister, maybe,” thinks I.  “And he’s in for a smash.”

Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it’s a little late, for he’s got a lot of headway.  Honest, I didn’t think it out.  And I was achin’ to butt into something.  I jumped quick, grabbed the bow as it came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside the fenders without even scratchin’ the varnish.

“Thanks, old chap,” says he.  “Saved me a bad bump there.  I—­I’m greatly obliged.”

“You’re welcome,” says I.  “You was steamin’ in a little strong.”

“I haven’t handled the Vixen much myself,” says he.  “You see, our boatman’s laid up,—­sprained ankle,—­and I had to come down from the Rocks for some gasolene.”

“Oh!  Roarin’ Rocks?” says I.

“Yes,” says he.  “Where’s that fool float tender?”

“Just gone into the clubhouse,” says I.  “Maybe I could keep her from bumpin’ while you’re gone.”

“By Jove! would you?” says he, handin’ over a boathook.

Even then I wasn’t layin’ any scheme.  I helps when they puts the gas in, and makes myself generally useful.  Also I’m polite and respectful, which seems to make a hit with him.

“Deuced bother,” says he, “not having any man.  I had a picnic planned for today too.”

“That so?” says I.  “Well, I’m no marine engineer, but I’m just killin’ time around here, and if I could help any way——­”

“Oh, I say, but that’s jolly of you,” says he, “I wonder if you would, for a day or so?  My name’s Hollister, Payne Hollister.”