Priscilla leaped up excitedly.
“Now they’re done,” she said. “They’re far worse stuck than we are.”
“Oh, do look at him,” said Frank, “Did you ever see anything so funny?”
The man staggered to his feet and floundered towards the shore, squeezing the salt water from his eyes with his knuckles.
“Of course, I’m sorry for the poor beast in a way,” said Priscilla, “but I can’t help feeling that it jolly well serves him right. Oh, look at them now!”
She laughed convulsively. The scene was sufficiently ridiculous. The spy stood dripping forlornly, on the shore. The lady dabbed at various parts of his clothing with her pocket-handkerchief. Flanagan’s old boat, now fairly in mid-channel, bobbed cheerfully along on the ebbing tide.
“I’d give a lot this minute,” said Priscilla, “for a pair of glasses. I can’t think why I was such a fool as not to take father’s when we were starting.”
“I can see well enough,” said Frank. “What I’d like would be to be able to hear what he’s saying.”
“I don’t take any interest in bad language, and in any case I don’t believe he’s capable of it. He looked to me like the kind of man who wouldn’t say anything much worse than ‘Dear me.’”
“Wouldn’t he? Look at him now. If he isn’t cursing I’ll eat my hat.”