He let go the rope, and, seating himself again, put the oars into the rowlocks. He tried to arrest the speed of the boat by vigorous backing; but, to his surprise, found that his efforts were of no avail.
“Hilda,” he cried, not betraying, however, the anxiety he was beginning to feel, “take the other pair of oars and let us see what you are good for.”
Hilda, not realizing the danger, obeyed, a little tremblingly, perhaps, and put the other pair of oars into their places.
“Now let us turn the boat around,” sternly commanded the boy. “It’s getting late, and we must be home before bedtime. One—two—three—pull!”
The oars struck the water simultaneously and the boat veered half way around; but the instant the oars were lifted again, it started back into its former course.
“Why don’t you cut the rope and let the dolphin go?” asked Hilda, striving hard to master the tears, which again were pressing to her eyelids.
“Not I,” answered her brother; “why, all the fellows would laugh at me if they heard how I first caught the dolphin and then the dolphin caught me. No, indeed. He hasn’t much strength left by this time, and we shall soon see him float up.”
He had hardly uttered these words, when they shot past a rocky promontory, and the vast ocean spread out before them. Both sister and brother gave an involuntary cry of terror. There they were, in their frail little skiff, far away from home, and with no boat visible for miles around. “Cut the rope, cut the rope! Dear Bernt, cut the rope!” screamed Hilda, wringing her hands in despair.
“I am afraid it is too late,” answered her brother, doggedly. “The tide is going out, and that is what has carried us so swiftly to sea. I was a fool that I didn’t think of it.”