He meditated.
“Where are the screw-eyes?” he said after a moment.
“Oh, good for you! They’re in the metal box. I’ll get them.”
I drew in my useless oars, turned about and cautiously wriggled up into the bow seat.
“Look out for yourself! Don’t bullfrog out over the bow. I can’t hold her any steadier than this.”
“Oh, I’m all right.”
With one hand I gripped the gunwale, with the other I felt down into the box and finally fished out the required treasures. I worked my way back into my own seat and tried a screw-eye in the empty, rusted-out hole.
“Does it bite?[”]
“I don’t know about biting, but it’s going in beautifully—now it goes hard.”
“Perhaps I can give it a turn.”