“Keep up your heart,” said he. “Whose boat is that, may I ask?”
“It belongs to a man named Brian—Brian something or other—perhaps O’Donal.”
“In that case I think it almost certain that you will find a fishing line in the locker astern—a fishing line and a tin bailer—the line will help you out of the difficulty.”
Before he had quite done speaking she was in the stern sheets, groping with one hand in the little locker.
She brought out, first, a small jar of whiskey, secondly, a small pannikin that served a man’s purpose when he wished to drink the whiskey in unusually small quantities, and was also handy in bailing out the boat, and, thirdly, a fishing line-wound about a square frame.
She held up the last-named so that Harold might see it.
“I thought it would be there,” said he. “Now if you can only cast one end of that line ashore, I will catch it and the boat will be alongside the landing-place in a few minutes. Can you throw?”
She was silent. She examined the hooks on the whale-bone cross-cast.
He laughed again, for he perceived that she was reluctant to boast of the possession of a skill which was denied to all womankind.
“I’ll explain to you what you must do,” he said. “Cut away the cast of hooks.”