The boat rasped to a halt, on bottom almost half a length from the boggy turf that formed a strip between the pines and the reeds. Willens had wicked up his throttles. It was justice, simple justice.
And down the street, in a small frame house, a grizzled veteran, who had faced death on many fields of carnage, lay back on his bed and told a despairing committee that he was ill, even to the point of death, and that there could be no wedding. The bald-headed man knocked on the door twice, not too hard, not too soft.