“Look here, sir; this is nothing to make a fuss about. It will keep you afloat while the weather’s fine, but just come a rough time, those sails will be ripped off as easily as pocket-handkerchiefs. Besides, they will hinder your sailing no end.”
“Ah, that is bad,” said the Count, changing countenance.
“Oh no, not it. There’s worse disasters than that at sea.”
“But will it not be possible for the carpenters to stop the leaks?”
“No, sir; not unless you do what I say.”
“Ah! What is that?”
“Run your craft up one of the rivers to where you can careen on the mad, and then a few hours between tides will be enough to put everything straight.”
“Is there no other way?” asked the Count.
“Only downwards, sir,” cried the skipper; and the French lad glanced questioningly at Rodd, who shook his head.
“No,” said the boy, almost in a whisper. “I don’t think there is any other way. He is quite right.”