He felt that he had never seen so beautiful a girl. Even making a liberal allowance for that glamour of the moonlight, which he had tried to assure himself was as deceptive as the glamour of love, she was, he felt, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
He crushed down every suggestion that came to him as to the best way of helping her out of her difficulty. It was his opportunity.
Then she turned her eyes from the cliff and looked at him again.
There was something imploring in her look.
“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.