“They couldn’t ’ear you,” moaned Mr. Clark.
“I could wave to them!”
“And upset the boat?” asked Mr. Clark, faintly. “She’s very, very easy upset. The chap what owns this boat never tells ’er ’istory when ’e’s ’iring it out to visitors in the summer.”
“What can we do? What can we do?”
“Do? Why, nothing, except ’ope. We must just let the old boat float out and trust to luck.”
“But—but—” protested the other, wildly.
“Ooh! Ooh, ah!” bellowed Mr. Clark, in accents of acute anguish, as the easiest way to foreclose vain conversation.
He sat back, groaning horribly, and rubbing various portions of his anatomy, a fearful glare in his eyes.
The other man, watching him miserably, took a firm grasp of the seat as the little craft began to pitch and dance over the turmoil of the harbour-bar.
“We—we—we—” murmured Mr. Clark, with difficulty.