"We're done, we are," he mumbled. "I stopped the engine the minute she hit, but she had too much way on her—that's what carried her over. She's bashed a hole in her the size of your head. She won't float five minutes."
"Start her ahead again, then!" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice snapped now.
"It won't do any good," Runnells answered, as he stumbled back to his former place. "She won't anywhere near make the shore—it's half a mile at least."
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "But, in that case, we won't have so far to swim!"
The engine started up again.
"It ain't as though we didn't know there was reefs"—Runnells was stuttering his words—"only we'd figured with our light draft we wouldn't any more than scrape one anyhow, and it wouldn't do us any harm. But she's rotten, that's what she is—plain rotten and putty! And we must have hit a sharp ledge of rock. Gawd, we've a foot of water in us now!"
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe calmly. "Well, don't blubber about it! We'll get ashore—and we'll get away again. There's half a dozen skiffs and things of that sort stowed away in the boathouse that are never used now. One of them will never be missed, and we can at least get far enough away from the island by daybreak not to be seen, and eventually we'll make the other side even if it is a bit of a row."
"Row!" ejaculated Runnells.
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly. "Why not—since we have to? We can't steal a motor boat whose loss would be discovered, can we?"
"My Gawd!" said Runnells.