“I don’t know,” said Peter, “whether would your da be pleased with me if I sent you out in the Tortoise. Sure you know——”
“Mr. Mannix and I,” said Priscilla, “are going out for the day in the Tortoise.”
Peter Walsh took a long look at Frank. He was apparently far from satisfied with the result of his inspection.
“Of course if the young gentleman in the perambulator is going with you, Miss—the Tortoise is a giddy kind of a boat, your honour, and without you’d be used to her or the like of her—but sure if you’re satisfied—but what it is, the master gave orders that Miss Priscilla wasn’t to go out in the Tortoise without either himself or me would be along with her.”
Frank was painfully aware that he was not used to the Tortoise or to any boat the least like her. He had never in his life been to sea in a sailing boat for the management of which he was in any way responsible. He was, in fact, entirely ignorant of the art of boat sailing. But the men who sat on the window sills of Brannigan’s shop, battered sea dogs every one of them, had their eyes fixed on him. It would be deeply humiliating to have to own up before them that he knew nothing about boats. Sir Lucius’s order applied, very properly, to Priscilla who was a child. Peter Walsh looked as if he thought that Frank also ought to be treated as a child. This was intolerable. The day seemed very calm. It was difficult to think that there could be any real risk in going out in the __Tortoise__. Priscilla nudged him sharply with her elbow. Frank yielded to temptation.
“Miss Lentaigne,” he said, “will be quite safe with me.”
He spoke with lordly self-confidence, calculated, he thought, to impress the impudent loafers on the window sills and to reduce Peter Walsh to prompt submission. Having spoken he felt unreasonably angry with Priscilla who was grinning.
Peter Walsh ambled down to the quay. He climbed over the dredger, which was lying alongside, and dropped from her into a small water-logged punt. In this he ferried himself out to the Tortoise. Priscilla bounded into Brannigan’s shop. The sea dogs on the window sills eyed Frank and shook their heads. It was painfully evident that his self-confident tone had not imposed on them.
“There’s not much wind any way,” said one of them, “and what there is will be dropping with the ebb.”
“It’ll work round to the west with the flood,” said another. “With the weather we’re having now it’ll follow the sun.”