Neither spoke after that until the boat grounded, and Oily Dave stepped out on to the bank.
"Miles, you must serve him with what he wants: don't call me; I—I am going to be busy," Katherine said hastily, then beat a rapid retreat from the door. But she only went to the corner where a lot of gay-coloured rugs were hanging, and stood there waiting to hear what Oily Dave might have to tell.
How slowly he walked up from the bank! She could hear his heavy seaboots squelching through the mud, then the deep, grunting noise which always accompanied any of his movements.
"Good morning!" said Miles curtly, as the squelching boots crossed the threshold.
"I don't call it a good morning," snarled Oily Dave.
Katherine drew yet closer into the shadow of the rugs, and clenched her hands tightly to keep from screaming; something bad had got to be told, she was sure, and she doubted her ability to bear it.
"What is wrong?" asked Miles.
"A good deal more than will ever be put right in this world, or the next either, perhaps," replied Oily Dave. "We are afraid the Mary has gone down."
"Ah!" The involuntary moan escaped the listener who was out of sight, but Oily Dave did not hear, or at any rate he did not heed, and, after a brief pause, he went on:
"We was off Akimiski yesterday after walrus, but when it came on to blow we turned home, for there is no anchorage to run to there in dirty weather, but plenty of rocks to fall foul of, which are not quite so pleasant. But we couldn't get home for a while, being blown along the east coast of the island, with a lively chance of being wrecked at any minute. We were beating along under the lee of the island when we saw a boat drifting bottom up, and when we hooked her we found she was the Mary's boat."