“Don’t know. It looks like it, unless anyone can swim!” returned Raymonde, with what stoicism she could muster.
“Perhaps they’ll hire a cart to the river, and fetch up a punt?”
“It’ll take hours to do that!”
The prospect of supper and bed seemed to be retreating further and further into the dim and faraway distance. Aveline remembered that it was the evening for stewed pears and custard, and tears dripped down her cheeks on to her torn blouse.
“Oh! brace up, can’t you?” snapped Raymonde. “It gives me spasms to hear you sniff!”
Aveline was bursting into an indignant retort, when her companion nudged her and pointed to the mainland. 200
Mackenzie, the old gardener, was coming across the orchard carrying on his shoulder a very large wash-tub. The cook followed him, bearing a clothes-prop.
“They’ve the best brains in the house! He’s going to rescue us!” exclaimed Raymonde ecstatically.
The prisoners on the island watched with deep interest while Mackenzie launched his shallop, clambered in, and seizing the clothes-prop from Cook, pushed off cautiously. His craft was very low in the water and looked particularly wobbly, and they were terribly afraid it would upset. In spite of their anxiety they could not help seeing the humorous side of the episode, and they choked with laughter as the tub gyrated and bobbed about, and the old man clutched frantically at his pole. He made first of all for the floating raft, secured it with a piece of rope, and dragged it to the island. The girls straightened their faces and welcomed him with polite expressions of gratitude.
He received their thanks ungraciously—perhaps he had seen them laughing—pushed the raft to a spot where they could board it, and remarked tartly: