The water was sloshing around Captain Francis Newcombe's feet; the boat had already grown noticeably sluggish in its movement. He cast an appraising eye toward the land. It was almost impossible to judge the distance. Runnells had said half a mile a few minutes ago. Call it a quarter of a mile now. But Runnells was quite right in one respect; it was certain now that the boat would scuttle before the shore was reached.
"How far can you swim, Runnells?" he demanded abruptly.
"It ain't that," choked Runnells, "I can swim all right; it's—"
"It was just a matter of whether your body would be washed up on the shore, which would be equally as bad as though the boat stranded there for the edification of our friend Locke," drawled Captain Francis Newcombe. "But since you can swim that far, and since the boat's got to sink, let her sink here in deep water where she won't keep anybody awake at night wondering about her—or us. Stop the engine again!"
"But the luggage," said Runnels, "I—"
"It will sink out of sight quite readily, but run a rope through the handles and lash the stuff to the boat so it won't drift ashore—yes, and anything else that's loose!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "I can't swim a quarter of a mile with portmanteaus! Stop the engine!"
"Strike me pink!" said Runnells faintly, as he obeyed and again stumbled forward to the luggage.
Captain Francis Newcombe sat down and began to unlace his boots. The water was nearly level with the bottom of the seat.
"Hurry up, Runnells!" he called.
"It's all right," said Runnells after a moment.