Scood hesitated for a moment, and then took off his Tam o’ Shanter.
“Ye’ll joost putt ’em in ta ponnet,” he said.
“No, no, that won’t do; they’d fall out.”
Scood scratched his curly red head.
“Aweel!” he exclaimed; “she’s cot a wee bit of string. Ye’ll joost tak’ it in yer sporran, and my twa stockings. Putt ane in each, and then tie ’em oop at the tops and hang ’em roond yer neck. Do ye see?”
“That will do capitally, Scood!” cried Kenneth, seizing the socks which the lad had stripped from his feet and thrusting them in his pocket. “Good-bye, Max.”
“No, no! don’t say good-bye! Don’t go down!” panted Max, in spite of himself; and then he stood pressing wildly down on the anchor, for Kenneth had glided over the side, and, after hanging from the verge for a moment, he gave his head a nod, laughed at Max, and disappeared, with Scoodrach leaning down with his hands upon his knees watching him.
For a few moments Max closed his eyes, while the rope jarred and jerked, and the iron thrilled beneath his foot. Then all at once the jarring ceased, and the rope hung loose.
Max opened his eyes in horror, the idea being strong upon him that Kenneth had fallen. But his voice rose out of the depths beyond the edge.
“Ask him if he’d like to come down and see.”