"Then you'd better get a move on if you're going!" snapped the American,
instantly taking charge of the whole affair. "Shoot your grip here!" He
stood ready to receive and deliver it to the boatman who had landed
below.

"Had about decided not to go," frowned the Briton with an odd change of
manner. "It looks--er--so nasty over there--still, if you can endure it
I suppose I--" the final phrase was lost in the swing at his big kit
bag.

The American followed the luggage hurriedly; the tall fellow lowered
himself calmly and with a certain precision into the stern of the dory.
The boatman set out toward the gliding mass of iron.

The blond youth surveyed their distance from the great dock and marked
its deliberate but deceptive speed.

"I doubt whether we catch it after all," he remarked with slight
interest in his voice.

"Then we'll take a train to Gravesend and get aboard boat there,"
planned the American promptly.

A smile glimmered on the long brown face for a moment. "That's very
Yankee-like, I believe," he said complimentarily.

With the brisk friendliness of his nation, the Yankee drew a morocco
case from his pocket. "Leonard Madden is my name," he said as he offered
a bit of engraved card.