“Bravo! hooray!” cried Kenneth. “That’s your sort; only the wind isn’t quite right, and you’ll have to tack.”
“To tack what—the sail?”
“No, no, I don’t mean nail the sail to the mast.”
“Oh, I remember; go backwards and forwards with the boat.”
“There, Scoody!” cried Kenneth triumphantly; “I only wish you had got as much brains in your old red head as he has.”
“Ret’s a ferry coot colour for a het,” grumbled Scoodrach, who was very sore, and who kept on gently rubbing the spot where he had given himself “such a ding.”
“Good-bye!” cried Max. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“That’s right. Don’t go to my father. Tell old Tavish and Long Shon, and they’re to bring a strong rope.”
“Yes; I won’t forget.”
“And steer with one hand, and hold the sheet in the other,” cried Kenneth. “Don’t do as I did. Good-bye, old chap; you’re not a bad fellow after all.”