“You girls move forward,” he commanded; “I’ll have to scull,” and moving cautiously to the stern of the boat he put his remaining oar in the notch cut for it and began to move it regularly back and forth.
“Are you going inshore, Amos?” questioned his sister.
“What for?” asked the boy. “I’ve got one good oar, haven’t I? We can go along first-rate.”
“It’s too bad to lose a good oar,” said Amanda.
“Father won’t care,” said Amos reassuringly; “’twa’n’t a good oar. The blade was split; ’twas liable to harm somebody. He’ll not worry at losing it.”
The dory went along very smoothly under Amos’s sculling and with the aid of the tide. Amanda and Anne, their lines trailing overboard, watched eagerly for a bite, and before long Anne had pulled in a good-sized plaice, much to Amos’s satisfaction. He drew in his oar to help her take out the hook, and had just completed this task when Amanda called out:
“Amos! Amos! the oar’s slipping!”
The boy turned quickly and grabbed at the vanishing oar, but he was too late—it had slid into the water. They were now some distance from shore and the tide was setting strongly toward the mouth of the harbor. Amos looked after the oar and both of the little girls looked at Amos.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Amanda. “We can’t ever get back to shore.”