Dick had pulled the scull in and was standing, showing no sign of fear, as the dinghy which had twisted sideways a bit, owing to the efforts with the scull, altered its position and came along, bow on, nearing the cape now, but at least a yard too far away to be seized.
“Boat huk!” cried Kearney. “Stick out the boat huk! Lord alive, look slippy!”
Before the words were spoken Dick had grasped the idea. He seized the boat hook, raised it aloft with a mighty effort, and, as the dinghy closed with the cape, let the end drop into the hands of the sailor.
Kearney drew the boat to the bank. Then getting into the little craft, he took the sculls and rowed back.
He neither scolded nor shook the child as another might have done. Dick had acted so sensibly and so pluckily that the sailor had no heart to “be harsh with him,” but the incident had a profound effect upon the mind of Kearney and the future of Dick.
The question “what would have happened to the little devil if he’d gone drifting off” suggested another question to the mind of the sailor: the question what would happen to the child if he, Kearney, were drifted off in the dinghy, or if he went west suddenly, like Lestrange.
He knew himself to be in full health and strength. All the same, the question presented itself and made him consider it.
He pictured to himself Dick starving to death in the midst of plenty and, unpleasant as the picture was, it gave him something to think about and something to do. The whole thing was a godsend, in a way, to Kearney, for the vanishing of Lestrange had begun to weigh on his mind. If he had seen Lestrange drop dead and had buried him, it would not have been nearly so bad. It was the thought of him lying somewhere in those woods, unburied, just as he was, that weighed on him.
The thought poisoned the groves; it maybe would have poisoned the lagoon and reef, only for Dick.
That evening, an hour or so before sunset, he took the child out in the boat.