The stern swung out into the stream. At that instant a figure came softly and hastily through the doorway, with a finger on its lips. It slipped a crown into the waterman’s ready palm. The prow of the wherry, held by the latter, jerked and bobbed and settled steady. He in the boat was at wrestle with the sculls.
“Let her go!” he cried, without looking round.
The waterman gave the craft a vigorous shove, and stepped back.
“What’s in the wind with you, my dandy galloot?” he murmured watching, hand on hip; and—“Your honour makes better time with tongue-pad than with sculls,” he added with a grin. And, indeed, it must be confessed that Sir Robert was no accomplished oarsman.
However, he shuffled his craft out into mid-stream somehow, being indifferent to the manner; and then he poised his sculls, letting the boat drift down with the tide which was running to sea.
Even now he could hardly take himself with that seriousness that the nature of his intention would seem to demand.
“Did ever man,” he said aloud, “meet the devil half-way with such a sense of humour?”
“You have none,” said a creaking voice in the bows.
He twisted his head about—scarcely marvelling at the response.
“So you have taken me at my word?” he said.