"What's up?" demanded Petrak, getting to his feet. "Can't ye start it—what's wrong, Thirkle?"
"Come up here and haul out some of the gear in this boat—move navy style, lad—we can't be wasting the whole night! Reach in there and clear that mess of halyard."
But Petrak did not move. He knew something was wrong; but whether it was Thirkle he feared, or what Thirkle seemed afraid of, I did not know. I thought he suspected treachery.
"What's wrong, Thirkle?" he demanded.
"Come on up here, can't ye?"
"What ye want, Thirkle? No funny business for me. Speak out what ye want.
Ye ain't goin' to do me dirt, be ye, Thirkle—not Reddy?"
He was whining now, and he was in terror of Thirkle.
"Oh, shut up!" growled Thirkle. "It's nothing, but it give me a turn."
"What was it, Thirkle? What frightened ye?"
"I thought I put my hand into a mess of hair and—"