“Why does Mr. Harsch hate you?” Reuben asked, somewhat absently, for he was only partly listening. He’d never been in a motorboat and was preoccupied by the rumble of the engine, the smell of exhaust fumes now drifting astern, the lovely rush of water along the sides. “Or, I mean, pretend to hate you?” “Who can say?” Jack replied with a shrug. “Maybe because I keep borrowing his boat.” They.”
