It was a boast of Satan’s that he had never lost a spar, a fact partly due to luck, partly to his foreseeing eye; like a good general, he had plans for all eventualities.
“They won’t be in the lagoon for a couple of hours,” said he, “with this wind and all. Come on aboard the old tub.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Jude. “Sink her at her moorings?”
“No time; besides, they’d see her on the lagoon floor. It’s up anchor and let her drift on the sands.”
“What’s the good of that?”
“Oh, Lord! Don’t stand jibberin’! I’ve got my plan. Into the dinghy with you!”
They rowed over to the Haliotis.
The one thing that Satan had not coveted was, mercifully, the winch; it was of the type of the West Country winch, and not a spot on Pap’s patent, at least in Satan’s eyes.
They set to, got the anchor in, secured it, and rowed back to the Sarah. Then they watched the Haliotis drift. The tide was going out. She was close to the eastern arm of the spit, and that arm had a bead in it toward the narrowing entry.
Satan reckoned she would take the sand a hundred yards or so from the entry, and he reckoned right.