Madelaine leaped to his side, and was in turn assisted to the top, she accepting the tall gentleman’s help, while Uncle Luke, with his hands resting on his rod, which he held with the butt on the rock, stood grimly looking down at the boat.
“I think I’ll land here,” said Leslie. “You don’t want my help with the boat.”
“Oh, no; we can manage,” said Harry sourly; and Leslie gave up his oar and leaped on to the rock as the boat was again backed in.
“That chap looks quite green,” said Uncle Luke with a sneering laugh. “Our London friend been poorly, Louie?”
Before she could answer the tall gentleman cried to those in the boat—
“Don’t be long, my boy. Tea will be waiting.”
“All right, dad. Lay hold of this oar, Vic, and let’s get her moored.”
“Why, you’re wet, Mr Leslie,” said the tall gentleman, shaking hands.
“Only sea-water, sir. It’s nothing.”
“But,” said the former speaker, looking quickly from one to the other, and his handsome, thoughtful face seemed troubled, “has there been anything wrong?”