There was a consultation.
“The men say we should gain very little. It is twelve o’clock, and Balholm is as near as any other place, so that they advise our going on. Of course one of us will keep close watch, and bale out what water comes in; also have something ready to serve as a plug. But I am afraid it adds to your discomfort.”
“Oh no, I shall be admiring your resources. Don’t leave me useless. Would you like me to act like the boy at the Dutch dyke?”
“I am sure you would,” said Wareham, in a low voice which silenced her.
It was not very easy to find materials for the plug. Anne handed him her gloves, and he abstracted one, but was afraid of discovery if he kept the other. A felt hat belonging to one of the men was rolled as tightly as possible, and held ready; at the same time the men insisted that the cork should not be removed until absolutely necessary, and one was told off to bale and watch.
“All the sensations I imagined are going to be provided for us in miniature,” said Anne, with a laugh. “A desert island, and a leaky boat in mid-ocean. Mr Wareham, you are a conjuror!”
“May the conjuring land you finally and safely at Balholm!”
“After which!” She laughed again.
Silence fell on them once more. One man was scooping up the water in the tin mug; it gurgled under his hand, and the splash of throwing it over followed. The fjord, in the clear semi-darkness, stretched into infinite distances, a wisp of cloud sailed slowly overhead, a pettish breeze blew chilly against Anne’s cheek. She called across to Wareham—“There is a little wind. Can’t we sail?”
“These fjords are treacherous. I dare not. You are not cold?”