“She’ll go over, and you’ll trown the chentleman!” cried Scood.
“He won’t mind!” cried Kenneth, settling himself in the stern and seizing the tiller; when Max gave vent to a gasp, for the boat seemed to be going over, so great was the pressure on the bellying sails, but she rose again, and made quite a leap as she skimmed through the waves.
“That’s the way to make her move,” cried Kenneth triumphantly. “Think I don’t know how to manage a boat, you red-headed old tyke?”
“Ah, chust wait till a squall comes out of one of the glens, Master Ken, and you’ll see.”
“Tchah! Don’t you take any notice of him. He’s an old grey corbie. Croak, croak, croak! Afraid of getting a ducking. You sit still and hold tight, and I’ll run you up to Dunroe in no time.”
Max said nothing, but sat there in speechless terror, as, out of sheer obstinacy, and partly out of a desire to scare his new companion, Kenneth kept the sheet fast—the most reprehensible act of which a boatman can be guilty in a mountain loch—and the boat under far more pressure of sail than she ought to have borne.
The result was that they literally raced through the gleaming water, which was now being lit up by the setting sun, that turned the sides of the hills into so much transparent glory of orange, purple, and gold, while the sea gleamed and flashed and danced as if covered with leaping tongues of fire.
It was a wondrous evening, but Max Blande, as he clung there, could only see a boat caught by a sudden gust, and sinking, while it left them struggling in the restless sea.
Over and over again, as they rushed on, the bows were within an ace of diving into some wave, and the keel must often have shown, but by a dexterous turn of the tiller Kenneth avoided the danger just at the nick of time, and nothing worse happened than the leaping in of some spray, Scood silently sopping the gathering water with a large sponge, which he kept on wringing over the side.
“There’s a puff coming,” cried Scood, suddenly looking west.