Just how it had been made “right” didn’t appear. There was no oratory, no public appeal. But three times as many as the captain wanted were offering to go out in the fog and plant the great anchor in the choppy sea.
“I—me. You haf bromise I shall go! Not?” A great muscular German was squeezing his way to Cheviot’s side.
“All right. No hurry. They’ll be a while yet, getting those buoys right.”
The general attention was riveted to the second boat hanging high over the monster anchor that was destined to be bound lengthwise along the keel. How was any craft to make her way mounted in so strange a fashion? How could anybody hope it wouldn’t sink?
“No, the weight will be too well distributed,” Cheviot had said.
“Yes, till you start layin’ the anchor out yonder,” the pilot commented darkly.
Hildegarde made a sign to Cheviot. He came to her across the chain barrier, newly established to keep back the crowd.
Before the girl could speak, “Those heavy ropes,” said Mrs. Locke, “that are to lash the big anchor along the bottom of the boat, how will you ever get them undone out there in the choppy water?”
“Cut them,” answered Cheviot shortly. “What did you want, Hildegarde?”
She looked at him appealingly, and then, as though abandoning some quite different point, “My Blumpitty is very sore that you are taking the big German instead of him.”