“That fellow on the island,” said Priscilla, “is getting down his tents and seems to be in a mighty hurry. He’s got a woman helping him. Do you think she could be a female spy? There are such things. They carry secret ciphers sewn into their stays and other things of that kind.”
“I don’t believe they’re spies at all,” said Frank, who was feeling dishevelled and uncomfortable after his struggle with the sail.
“Anyhow they seem pretty keen on getting away from Inishark. Just look at them.”
There was no doubt that the people on the island were doing their best to strike their camp as quickly as possible. In their hurry they stumbled over guy ropes, got the fly sheet of one of their tents badly tangled round a packing case, and made the matter worse by trying to free it without proper consideration.
“Let them fuss,” said Priscilla. “We can’t help it if they do get away. If your ankle isn’t too bad we might as well have lunch. You grub out the food when I get off my shoes and stockings, I’m a bit damp about the legs.”
Frank felt under the thwart through which the mast was stepped and drew out one by one the parcel of macaroons, the tongue, the tin of peaches and the bottles. Priscilla wrung out her stockings over the stern of the boat and then hung them on the gunwale to dry. She propped her shoes up against the stern where they would get as much breeze as possible.
“I wish,” said Frank, “that we’d thought of getting some bread.”
“Why? Don’t you like macaroons?”
“I like them all right, but they don’t go very well with tongue.”
“We’ll begin with the tongue, then, and keep the macaroons till afterwards. Hand it over.”