“There’s no wind any way.”
“There is not; but I wouldn’t say but there might be at the turn of the tide.”
“Haul her up to the slip,” said Priscilla. “I’ll be back again long before the tide turns.”
The steamer swung slowly round. The rattle of her donkey-engine was plainly audible. The warp made fast to the buoy dipped into the water, strained taut dripping, and then dipped again. Suddenly the captain on the bridge shouted. The engine stopped abruptly. The warp sagged deep into the water. A small boat with one man in her appeared close under the steamer’s bows, went foul of the warp and lay heavily listed while one of her oars fell into the water and drifted away.
“That’s a nice sort of fool to be out in a boat by himself,” said Priscilla.
“He was damn near having to swim for it,” said Peter, as the boat righted herself and slipped over the warp.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t rightly know who he is,” said Peter, “but he paid four pounds for the use of Flanagan’s old boat for a fortnight, so I’m thinking he has very little sense.”
“He has none,” said Priscilla. “Look at him now.”
The man, deprived of one of his oars, was pushing his way along the steamer’s side towards the quay. The captain was swearing heartily at him from the bridge.