“Do you know why they do slope downwards?” she asked.
“No idea.”
“So that prisoners, when they get tired of it, can roll down into the sea.”
“I shan’t be tired of this for a long time,” he assured her.
There was a pause. Jacob ceased eating for a moment to gaze with admiration at the girl in the boat, carried up and down by the swell, but balancing herself always with an amazing confidence.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry about this,” she called up.
“Seems a trifle feudal,” he replied. “What will be done with my remains?”
“You eat your sandwiches and don’t worry,” she insisted. “I told you I was doing things. If they get violent, I’ll take a hand.—I’ll have to get back unless I want to be swamped.”...
Jacob ate half his sandwiches, drank a good deal of whisky and water, and took a little exercise. He then had a nap, woke up and finished his sandwiches with an amazingly good appetite, had another whisky and water and thrust the flask into his pocket. He lit a cigarette, doubled up his coat, and was lounging against the wall when he heard the key once more turn in the lock of the downstairs door. There was the sound of ascending footsteps, and presently Montague’s glittering shirt front appeared through the grating. Joe Hartwell again was by his side. They peered in.
“Cheerio!” Jacob exclaimed.