“It has got between a couple of rocks, I suppose,” said Bigley.
“Here, stand aside!” cried Bob Chowne, “let the doctor come.”
He caught hold of the stout line, stood in Bigley’s place, and hauled till his wrists ached.
“Here, come and pull, Sep,” he cried; and I joined him and hauled, but in vain.
Then we changed the position of the boat, and dragged and jerked in one direction and then in another. Every way we could think of did we try, but could not stir the anchor, and as we were giving up in despair Bob said:
“I know; some big sea-monster has swallowed the hook and he won’t move. Here, let’s get ashore.”
“But we must not lose a new grapnel,” cried Bigley. “Here, I know what we’ll do.”
He hastily unfastened the rope from the ring-bolt in the bows, and secured it to the boat-hook by a hitch or two, and then cast it overboard.
“There!” he said; “that will buoy it, and I’ll come out to-morrow and get it up somehow.”
Then taking the oars he rowed us ashore, where a couple of the mine men were smoking their pipes and shining like glowworms as they waited to see what sport we had had.