"The stream's getting slack; the water must be coming through from the other end," Andrew said.
In another minute she slowly floated away and he threw the anchor off the bow.
"She'll ride to it, but as we needn't make sail until the flats are covered, we'll go down and get supper."
He changed his clothes while Whitney lighted the stove.
"How did the lamp go out?" he asked presently.
Whitney related his adventures, and Dick turned to him with a smile.
"Sorry I was huffed, but I dare say you can make allowance for my feelings. They'd got rather harrowed while I wandered about in the dark. You did the right thing, of course, in going back."
Dick made some coffee and when it was on the table Whitney was glad to lean back on a locker and light his pipe. With two candle lamps burning, the narrow cabin looked very snug and cheerful after the desolate sands, and it was something to see Andrew sitting opposite, safe but thoughtful.
"Did you trim the lamp properly?" Dick asked, puzzled.
"Of course," said Andrew, with a touch of dryness. "That's something I don't often neglect. Mixed the oil myself—colza and a dash of paraffin; and the lamp's the best I could get in Glasgow. Suppose you bring it down."