CHAPTER VIII
A CRUISE IN THE 'HEROIC'
'I can't understand Allan at all,' declared Marjorie. She and Reggie, armed with large pocket-knives, were engaged in cutting heather on the moor, which stretched, a mass of purple, to the verge of the cliffs. A pile of heather lay beside them, the result of an hour's hard sawing of the wiry stems.
Marjorie's remark had interrupted a busy silence.
Reggie looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. He had been growing thinner and browner during the summer, and his wrists came further beyond the sleeves of his jacket.
'What's the matter with Allan?' he asked.
'Why,' said Marjorie impatiently, 'he is going on so oddly. First of all, he wasn't to be found when we came here this morning—had been away for hours—and he isn't usually in such a hurry to get up in the holidays. Then when he comes back we all have to go off and get heather to patch up the roof of the Pirates' Den. I can't make out why he has grown so particular all of a sudden.'
Reggie looked at her with a provoking smile.
'I thought it was you who wanted the place kept water-tight,' he suggested, 'in case we might be storm-stayed some evening and have to spend the night there——'