“And she sailed pack all py herself?” said Long Shon.
“Yes. But do make haste. They will think me so long.”
“Let’s ket the watter oot,” said Tavish. “You, Shon, ket the rope oot o’ the poat-hoose; or shall she leave ta poys till to-morrow?”
“What! leave them all night?” cried Max in horror.
The great forester chuckled as he looked up at Max, and kept on baling away, while Long Shon rowed ashore.
“Na; she’ll go ant fetch ’em. So ta crapnel line proke?”
“Yes.”
“She must ha’ peen ferry pad.”
“Yes, of course,” said Max, who sat there contentedly enough, but vexed as he found how his ignorance of a boat had caused him a couple of hours’ terror.
Tavish toiled away with the baler till it would scoop up no more, and then, taking a great sponge from the locker, he sopped up and squeezed till the bottom of the boat was quite clear of water, and by this time, close down by the keel, Max had seen an ordinary wine-cork, with a piece of whipcord attached to it, stuck upright in the hole used for draining the boat when she was ashore.