Right ahead of her lay the little island of Delginish with a sharply shelving gravel shore. On the northern side of it stood two warning red perches. There were rocks inside them, rocks which were covered at full tide and half tide, but pushed up their brown sea-weedy backs when the tide was low. Priscilla put down her tiller, hauled on her sheet and slipped in through a narrow passage. She rounded the eastern corner of the island and ran her boat ashore in a little bay. She lowered the sail, slipped off her shoes and stockings and pushed the boat out. A few yards from the shore, she dropped her anchor and waited till the boat swung shorewards again to the length of her anchor rope. Then, with her bathing-dress in her hand she waded to the land. The tide was falling. Priscilla had been caught more than once by an ebbing tide with a boat left high and dry. It was not an easy matter to push the Blue Wanderer down a stretch of stony beach. Precautions had to be taken to keep her afloat.
A few minutes later, a brilliant scarlet figure, she was wading out again, knee deep, waist deep. Then with a joyful plunge she swam forward through the sun-warmed water. She came abreast of the corner of her bay, the eastern point of Delginish, turned on her back and splashed deliciously, sending columns of glistening foam high into the air. Standing upright with outspread hands and head thrown back, she trod water, gazing straight up into the sky. She lay motionless on her back, totally immersed save for eyes, nostrils and mouth. A noise of oars roused her. She rolled over, swam a stroke or two, and saw Flanagan’s old boat come swiftly down the channel. The stranger, who had courted disaster by fouling the steamer’s warp, tugged unskilfully at his oars. He headed for the island. Priscilla shouted to him.
“Keep out,” she said. “You’re going straight for the rocks.”
The young man in the boat turned round and stared at her.
“Pull your right oar,” said Priscilla.
The young man pulled both oars hard, missed the water with his right and fell backwards to the bottom of the boat. His two feet stuck up ridiculously. Priscilla laughed. The boat, swept forward by the tide, grounded softly on the sea wrack which covered the rocks.
“There you are, now,” said Priscilla. “Why didn’t you do what I told you?”
The young man struggled to his feet, seized an oar and began to push violently.
“That’s no use,” said Priscilla, swimming close under the rocks. “You’ll have to hop out or you’ll be stuck there till the tide rises, and that won’t be till swell on in the afternoon.”
The young man eyed the water doubtfully. Then he spoke for the first time.