"Stuck?" called the white steersman, and his voice was not unpleasant,
though a bit domineering, Betty thought.
"But perhaps this is because he is used to giving orders," she
reflected.
"Yes; we are on a sand bar, I'm afraid," she answered, and smiled.
"Look natural!" she commanded to the others a moment later, her voice
not reaching the men in the other craft, she felt sure, for the clutch
of the relief boat had been thrown out and the engine was racing, making
considerable noise. "Look as though we expected this," Betty commanded.
"There's nothing to fear. We are not far from home."
"Lots of folks get stuck on that bar," went on the man, who was bringing
his boat into a position favorable for giving aid to the _Gem_. "It
ought to be buoyed, or marked in some way. You're strangers around here,
I take it," he went on.
"Yes, from Mr. Stonington's orange grove," said Betty, simply. "If you
will kindly pull us off this bar we will gladly pay you for your
trouble."
Was it fancy, or did Betty detect fierce and eager gleams in the eyes of
the colored men?
"Oh, shucks!" exclaimed the steersman, quickly.
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