“It’s going to be blazing hot,” she said, “and altogether splendidly glorious. I feel rather like a dove that is covered with silver wings and her feathers like gold. Don’t you?”
Frank did. Although he would not have expressed himself in the words of the Psalmist, he recognised them. The most reliable tenor in the choir at Haileybury is necessarily familiar with the Psalms.
They reached the stone perch and cast anchor. It was half past seven o’clock. Priscilla got out the bread and honey.
“The proper thing to do,” she said, “would be to go on half rations at once, and serve out the bread by ounces and the honey by teaspoonfuls, but I think we won’t. I’m as hungry as any wolf.”
“Besides,” said Frank, “we haven’t got a teaspoon.”
“I hope your knife is to the fore. I’m not particular as a rule about the way I eat things, but there’s no use beginning the day by making the whole boat sticky. I loathe stickiness, especially when I happen to sit on it, which is one of the reasons which makes me glad I wasn’t born a bee. They have to, of course, poor things, even the queen, I believe. It can’t be pleasant.”
The tug of the boat at her anchor rope slackened as the tide reached its height. A light easterly wind came to them from the land. Priscilla swallowed the last morsel of bread and honey as the Tortoise drifted over her anchor and swung round.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you’d like to practise steering, Cousin Dick. If so, creep aft and take the tiller. I’ll get the sail on her and haul up the anchor.”
Frank, humbled by the experience of the day before, was doubtful. Priscilla encouraged him. He took the tiller with nervous joy. Priscilla hoisted the lug and then the foresail.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll get up the anchor and we’ll try to go off on the starboard tack. If we don’t we’ll have to jibe immediately. With this much wind it won’t matter, but you might not like the sensation.”