Satan, satisfied with the semi-resurrection, dropped below, and promptly the figure fell on its back again with arms outspread.
“Get up!” said Ratcliffe.
“I’m getting— Say!”
“Yes.”
“I—ow—yow—ain’t it awful bein’ tired?”
“You’ll be all right when you’re on your feet. Get up!”
“I’m getting— Say, d’you know where the fishing lines are? Starboard locker. Fetch’m up, an’ that chunk of grouper I kep’ for bait—in the tub.”
“Right.”
When he returned on deck she was drying her head in the sun, having soused it in a bucket of water.
Then they dropped a line.