“I—I thought—Pray don’t do that!”
Kenneth could not refrain from joining in Scood’s mirth, but he checked himself directly, and gave the lad a punch in the ribs, as he hauled at the mainsail.
“You’ll have the boat over!” cried the shivering guest, white now with agony, as the sail filled and the boat careened, and began to rush through the water.
“Take more than that to send her over,” cried Kenneth merrily, as he took the tiller. “Plenty of wind now, Scood.”
Scoodrach laughed, and their passenger clung more tightly to his seat.
For the wind was rising to a good stiff breeze, the waves were beginning to show little caps of foam, and to the new-comer it seemed utter madness to be seated in such a frail cockle-shell, which kept on lying over from the pressure on the sail, and riding across the waves which hissed and rushed along the sides, and now and then sent a few drops flying over the sail.
“You’ll soon get used to it,” cried Kenneth, who felt disposed at first to be commiserating and ready to pity his guest; but the abject state of dread displayed roused the spirit of mischief latent in the lad, and, after a glance or two at Scoodrach, he felt compelled to enjoy his companion’s misery.
“Is—is there any danger?” faltered the poor fellow at last, as the boat seemed to fly through the water.
“No, not much. Unless she goes down, eh, Scood?”
“Oh, she shall not go down chust direckly,” said Scoodrach seriously. “She’s a prave poat to sail.”