“Yes; the wild race.”
“Poof!”
“Be quiet, Scood, or I’ll chuck you overboard. What are you laughing at? I mean race of the tide. Look, you can see the whirlpools. It’s the Atlantic rushing in among the rocks. Now then, come along.”
The visitor would not rise to his feet, but crept over to the after part of the boat, where he crouched more than sat, starting violently as the light craft swayed with the movements of its occupants, and began to dance as well with the rising sea.
“I’m afraid you think I’m a terrible coward.”
“That’s just what I do think,” said Kenneth to himself; but he turned round with a look of good-humoured contempt. “Oh no,” he said aloud; “you’ll soon get used to it. Now, Scood, heave ahoy. Look here, we can’t help it. If you laugh out at him, I’ll smash you.”
“But look at him,” whispered Scood.
“I daren’t, Scood. Heave ahoy!”
“Take care! Mind!” cried the visitor in agony.
“What’s the matter?”