“But I have no knife.”
“Then I’ll throw mine into the bottom of your boat. Look out.”
Being a man, he was able to make the knife alight within reasonable distance of the spot at which he aimed. He saw her face brighten as she picked up the implement and, opening it, quickly cut away the cast of hooks.
“Now make fast the leaden sinker to the end of the fishing line, unwind it all from the frame, and then whirl the weight round and sling it ashore—anywhere ashore.”
She followed his instructions implicitly, and the leaden weight fled through the air, with the sound of a shell from a mortar.
“Well thrown!” he cried, as it soared above his head; and it was well thrown—so well that it carried overboard every inch of the line and the frame to which it was attached.
“How stupid of me!” she said.
“Of me, you mean,” said he. “I should have told you to make it fast. However, no harm is done. I’ll recover the weight and send it back to you.”
He had no trouble in effecting his purpose. He threw the weight as gently as possible into the bow of the boat, she picked it up, and the line was in her hands as he took in the slack and hauled the boat alongside the shelf of rock.
It cannot have escaped notice that the system of hauling which he adopted had the result of bringing their hands together. They scarcely touched, however.