"I shall miss you too, my lad," he said. "Now, let us send this boat over the river as fast as she can go. And bear in mind—keep your own shape at all times unless you can change it out of sight of prying eyes." They pulled at the oars. "Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Among the effects placed in your sea chest you will find a conch shell. Hold it to your ear, Christopher, as children do to hear the sea. You will be able to hear my voice, if ever you should need to."
"Oh—like a walkie-talkie?" Chris asked, pulling at his oar.
"Somewhat." And Chris knew his master smiled at him.
"What about getting you to shore, sir?" Chris enquired, pulling in rhythm so that the rope boat flew down the black and silver river.
"Have you forgotten who I am, my boy?" he was asked in return.
"No sir," said Chris, feeling a little small.
"Then undo the dinghy and clamber up the side, for here we are," said Mr. Wicker, and the towering hull of the Mirabelle rose above them.
Chris grasped a rope ladder that hung down beside them to the water's edge and turned for a last word.
"I'll do my best, sir, but I hope you'll stay with me!" he cried.
"All that I can, Christopher," came the distant voice. "Godspeed!"