“We’re not more’n a mile away,” said the steersman. “You can get a sight of the spit if you raise yourself. That’s it, the white line runnin’ north and south; but the gulls don’t seem to be as many as they used to be a year ago. It’s a bit early for the full laying season, but there’s sure to be turkles’ eggs. Better get your shoes and stockin’s off and roll up your pants, for it’s shallow beaching and we’ll have to run her up.”
“Won’t you take down the sail and row her in?”
“Not me. There’s no sea on and I’ll run her up as she is.”
They held on, the gulls shouting over them now, and the sigh of the sandspit, fuming to the lazy sea, in their ears. It was full tide, and as the keel touched the sand, letting the sheet go and the sail to flog in the wind, they tumbled over and dragged the little boat high and dry.
Then Jude took down the sail.
“You aren’t hungry yet?” said Jude.
“No; are you?”
“Well, I can wait. Well leave the grub and the water jar in the boat and cover them with the sail,—keep the sun off. Lend’s a hand.”
They covered the provisions, hauled the boat up another foot or two to make sure, and, that done, Ratcliffe looked around him.