“Oh, yes,” they cried confidently.
“Sit still then till the boat’s close in, then one at a time. You first, my dear.”
This to Louise, as he stepped actively down the granite rocks to a narrow natural shelf, which was now bare, now several inches deep in water.
“If we manage it cleverly we can get you ashore without a wetting.”
The warnings were necessary, for the tide ran fast, and the Atlantic swell made the boat rise and fall, smooth as the surface was.
“Now then,” cried the French-looking gentleman, giving his orders as if he were an officer in command, “easy, Harry Vine; back a little, Mr Leslie. Be ready, Louie, my dear. That’s it; a little more. I have you. Bravo!”
The words came slowly, and with the latter there was a little action; as he took the hands outstretched to him, when the boat nearly grazed the rock, there was a light spring, the girl was on the narrow shelf, and the boat, in answer to a touch of the oars, was half a dozen yards away, rising and falling on the swell.
“Give me your hand, my dear,” said the tall grey gentleman, leaning down.
“Oh, I can manage, papa,” she cried, and the next moment she was by his side. Looking back, “Thank you, Mr Van Heldre,” she said.
“Eh! All right, my child. Now, Maddy. Steady, my lads. Mind that ledge; don’t get her under there. Bravo! that’s right. Now, my girl. Well done!”