He decided to try, and now came the most difficult part of the steering he had encountered that day, and it was not until he had made three or four attempts that he lowered the sail, about fifty yards from the rocky natural pier from which they had started, and, to his great delight, saw Long Shon and Tavish watching him, and, after a consultation, run round to the little bay, out of which they came rowing in a dinghy.
“Wha’s ta young maister?” cried Tavish fiercely.
“Wha’s Scood?” cried Long Shon.
Max hurriedly explained.
“Ma cootness!” exclaimed Tavish; “she tought they was poth trooned.”
“Why, ta poat’s full o’ watter!” cried Long Shon.
“Yes; she is leaking and sinking fast.”
“Ma cootness!” cried Tavish, getting in, to Max’s horror.
“Don’t! you’ll sink her. Let me get out.”
“Na, na. Why tidn’t you bale ta watter oot?”