“That’s twice,” cried Pete. “Third time does it. Zay, Master Nic, aren’t the water nice and cold?”
The look which Nic gave the speaker in his despair checked Pete’s efforts to make the best of things.
“A beast!” he muttered to himself. “I should like to drive my hoof through her planks. Heavy boat? Why, she dances over the water like a cork.”
At that moment Nic could not suppress a sharp cry, and he made a spasmodic dash through the water.
“Eh, my lad, what is it?” cried Pete, who was startled.
“One of the great fishes or reptiles made a dash at me and struck me on the leg,” gasped Nic.
“Nay, nay, don’t zay that, lad. You kicked again a floating log. There’s hunderds allus going down to the zea.”
Nic shook his head, and Pete felt that he was right, for the next minute he was swimming on with his keen-edged knife held in his teeth, ready for the emergency which he felt might come; but they suffered no further alarm. Disappointment followed disappointment, and weariness steadily set in; but they swam steadily on, till Nic’s strength began to fail. He would not speak, though, till, feeling that he had done all that was possible, he turned his despairing eyes to Pete.
Before he could speak the latter cried:
“I knowed it, Master Nic, and expected it ever so long past. Now, you just turn inshore along with me; then you shall lie down and rest while I go on and ketch the boat. But how I’m to pull her back again’ this zwiff stream, back to you, my lad, is more’n I know.”