“And then,” continued Vince, without noticing the interruption, “part of it which there isn’t room for at the openings strikes against the rocks, and can’t get any farther.”
“Of course it can’t.”
“Well, it must go somewhere: water can’t be piled-up in a heap and stay like that; so it’s reflected—no, you can’t call it reflected—it’s turned back, and forms another stream, which flows back this way.”
“It couldn’t be,” said Mike shortly.
“Well, that’s the only way I can see, and that boat has come as easily as can be. Yes, I’m sure that’s it, Ladle; and you may depend upon it that three or four feet down the water’s rushing one way, while on the surface it’s flowing in the other direction.”
“Ah, well, it doesn’t matter to us,” said Mike bitterly, as the boat was brought up alongside cleverly, made fast, and her crew began to rapidly pass the bales over on to the deck, all being of one size, and, as Vince noticed, of a convenient size and weight for one man to handle.
“But it does matter to us, Mike,” whispered Vince eagerly.
“Why?”
“Because you and I couldn’t manage one of those big boats unless the currents helped us; but if we knew how these men managed them—”
“We could slip into one of them in the dark and get away.”