Evidently in an agony of dread and shame, the stranger stepped down into the boat, staggered, clung to Kenneth, and, as he was forced down to a seat, clung to it with all his might. Scood cast off the rope; the captain on the bridge made his bell ting in the engine-room, a burst of foam came rushing from beneath the paddle-box, the little boat danced up and down, the great steamer glided rapidly on, and Kenneth and Scoodrach gazed in an amused way at the new occupant of the boat.
“We’ve been waiting for you—hours,” said Kenneth at last. “How are you?”
“I’m quite well, thank—I mean, I’m not at all well, thank you,” said the visitor, shaking hands limply, and then turning to look at Scood, as if wondering whether he should shake hands there.
“That’s only Scood, my gillie,” said Kenneth hastily. “Did we get all your luggage?”
“I—I don’t know,” said the visitor in a helpless way. “I hope so. At least, I don’t mind. It has been such a rough passage!”
“Rough?” shouted Kenneth.
“Yes; terribly. The steamer went up and down so. I felt very ill.”
“Been beautiful here. Now, Scood, don’t sit staring there. Shove some of those things forward and some aft.”
Scood jumped up, the boat gave a lurch, and the visitor uttered a gasp.
“Mind!” he cried.