Ambrose came up, weaving slightly, as I climbed from the car. Leaving the door open, I shifted into drive, released the emergency brake and reached in to press the accelerator with my hand. I pressed it gently, just enough to start the car rolling. Then I shifted into neutral, pulled out my head and slammed the door.
It was about forty feet to the guard rail. The car picked up speed nicely and crashed through the wooden barrier as though it were cardboard. The sound of vegetation being torn out by the roots ended in a tremendous crash from below.
We raced back to the jalopy, Ambrose backed and turned, and we headed back the way we had come.
“Maybe we should have kept going the other way,” he said worriedly as we reached the next turn. “We have to drive right past where it landed, and maybe it’s blocked the road.”
“It probably just bounced and kept going,” I said. “There’s another small drop on the other side.”
We rounded another curve, and now were right below the hairpin turn. A fender, a wheel and a lot of broken glass littered the road. Presumably the rest of the car had continued on across the road, over the next bank and down into the underbrush below us. We couldn’t see down there because it was too dark.
Ambrose slowed to five miles an hour in order to edge past the debris. A tall figure slid on the seat of his pants from the undergrowth sloping upward to our right. Ambrose braked to a dead halt.
The man picked himself up, brushed off his pants and staggered over to the window on my side of the car. His clothing was pretty well torn up, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.
Leaning his head into the car, he said, “I say, gentlemen, I seem to have had a bit of an accident. Must have gone to sleep.”
He was looking straight at me with no sign of recognition. Apparently he was one of those drunks who blank out, because he obviously had no recollection of our previous encounter.
“I’m not exactly sure where I am,” he said in a tone of apology. “Do you happen to know?”
“Glen Ridge,” I said.
“Oh, yes.” He glanced around vaguely. “I recognize it now. I say, do you suppose that’s part of my car?” He was looking at the smashed green fender.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “No point in looking for the rest. I doubt that it will run.” I got out of the car. “Get in.”
“Why that’s very nice of you gentlemen,” he said, climbing into the middle. “May I buy you gentlemen a drink?”
“We have one,” I said, handing him the bourbon bottle.
He took a grateful swig as Ambrose started the car. When he handed the bottle back, I took a swig, too. Ambrose lifted his Scotch bottle from the floor and had a drink.
“What now?” I asked Ambrose.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
“I think I must have been heading for the country club,” Dobbs said, “but I can’t go in these clothes. Would you gentlemen mind dropping me at my boat?”
“What boat?” Ambrose asked.
“I keep it at the Lakeshore Yacht Club.” Suddenly his face brightened with inspiration. “Do you gentlemen enjoy night fishing?”
Even as dark as it was I could see the interest in Ambrose’s face. “What kind of boat do you have?”
“Just a small one. A twenty-five-footer.”
Ambrose and I exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing.
“You mean you’d like to go fishing tonight?” Ambrose asked.
“If you gentlemen have the time to be my guests.”
“We’ll take the time,” Ambrose said.
The pier of the Lakeshore Yacht Club was well lighted, and we could see about fifty boats, ranging from skills with outboard motors to cabin cruisers, docked in individual slips. None of the other owners seemed to share Dobbs’ enthusiasm for night fishing, because there wasn’t a single car in the parking area facing the pier.
Our host directed us to park in front of slip number twelve. The boat was a graceful little cabin cruiser with an enclosed bridge. A registration number and the name Bountiful was painted on the bow.
Ambrose carried the Scotch bottle as we clambered aboard. Dobbs and I had finished the bourbon en route. By now he was so snockered, we had to help him aboard.
Dobbs showed us below by opening the hatch and falling down the ladder. I was the next down, but I held onto an iron handrail and made it erect. I lit my lighter, spotted a wall switch and flicked on an overhead light. By the time Ambrose had joined us, I had helped Dobbs to his feet.
“Thanks, old man,” he said. “I’ll have to get those steps fixed.”
There were four bunks and a couple of cupboards in the cabin. Dobbs opened one of the cupboards and took out a couple of fishing rods. “Bait’s topside,” he said, dropping the rods and staggering to hands and knees.
I helped him to his feet again as Ambrose collected the rods. Ambrose carried them tops while I assisted Dobbs up the ladder. Dobbs collapsed in a canvas chair on the stern deck and immediately went to sleep.
“You know how to run this thing?” Ambrose asked.
“I’ve handled boats,” I said. “Not on fresh water, but it shouldn’t be any different than salt water. I’ll take a look.”
I climbed up to the wheelhouse and, with the aid of my lighter, found the control-panel lights. It took my eyes a time to focus, but eventually I figured out the purpose of the various controls. I started the engine, let it idle and switched on the running lights.
Ambrose climbed up into the wheelhouse. “You familiar with the harbor?” he asked.
“I told you I’d never been out on the lake before.”
“No, you didn’t. You just said you’d never handled a boat on fresh water.”
“All right,” I said. “No, I’m not familiar with the harbor, but the channel will be marked with buoys.”
Ambrose peered aft. “That looks like a seawall out there. Don’t run into it.”
I looked that way and dimly saw a long concrete breakwater across the mouth of the harbor. A pair of blinking red lights about fifty feet apart bobbed in the water at the near end of it.
“I know how to navigate,” I growled. “Go cast off.” He started down the ladder frontward, then changed his mind and backed down, holding onto the iron handrail with his free hand.
After some fumbling with the line he finally cast off. A moment later I backed from the slip, swung the boat around and headed at low speed for the lighted buoys marking the harbor entrance.
“Go out a couple of miles,” Ambrose said.
My navigation must have been a little rusty, because I scraped one of the lighted buoys as we went by. I missed the other by a good fifty feet, however.
Then we were beyond the seawall, in open water. There was only a slight roll, but it brought a groan from Ambrose. I opened the throttle and headed straight out from shore.
Ambrose had said to go out a couple of miles, but I couldn’t seem to focus my eyes on the compass, and I was afraid if I got too far out to see the harbor lights, I might get turned around. About a half mile out I shifted into neutral, let the boat drift and went down on deck. I figured nobody as drunk as Dobbs would be able to swim a half mile.
Dobbs was still asleep. Ambrose was hanging onto the stern rail and breathing deeply. His face was pale.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“I’m all right. How far out are we?”
“Far enough,” I said, and lifted Dobbs from his chair. He nestled his head against my shoulder like a baby.
I heaved him over the stern. There was a splash, a sound of floundering, then a sputtering noise.
“Man overboard!” came a strangled shout from the darkness.
The shout came from several yards away, because the boat was drifting rapidly. I went tops, engaged the clutch and swung back toward the harbor. Ambrose came up to stand beside me.