“Not if I can ’elp it!” denied Mr. Clark, and gave a straining, spectacular display of oarsmanship.
“We shall be carried out to sea!”
Mr. Clark, shipping his skulls with commendable neatness, stared owlishly at the passenger for a few moments, and then ejaculated:
“Ooh! Ooh, ah!” with intensity of feeling.
“What is it? Whatever is it?”
“Ooh! Ooh, ah!” repeated Mr. Clark. “It’s my ’eart!” he explained, hollowly, and made a fearsome rolling of his eyes. “I’ve strained it, or busted it, or something.”
“But—but we shall be capsized—drowned!”
“I couldn’t row another stroke just now, not to save my life,” groaned Mr. Clark. “And you mustn’t try to take the oars, not even if you know ’ow to manage ’em. You’d upset the boat if you tried to change places with me, and you’d upset it if you tried to row from where you’re sitting.”
His passenger, abandoning a half-formed intention, sat very still.
“Can’t we shout to the people ashore?” he asked, dismally, as the little boat swept on past the harbour lighthouse.