"The river is full of them.

I know the best way over." "Professional jealousy!" retorted Kenny, his eyes droll and tender.

"I suppose you belong to the ferryman's union." He dropped his knapsack into the boat and busied himself with the painter.

"If the boat had two oars," he told her laughing, "or I one arm, I know I could manage.
As it is, one oar and two arms--" "It's much better," said Joan sensibly, "than two oars and one arm.
Please get in." She went to the stern and stood there, waiting, one hand upon the oar.
Fascinated, Kenny climbed in.
What a ferryman! he mused as Joan sculled the punt from shore.

What a gown and what a background! The old brocade, flapping in the wind, was gold like the afterglow behind the gables and the soft, haunting shadows in the girl's eyes and hair.