"But it happened in broad day light!" said Lisbeth, almost in a whisper. She was sitting half turned from me, her gaze fixed on the bend of the river, and by chance her restless hand had found and begun to fumble with the severed painter.
So we drifted on, watching the gliding banks, while every moment the roar of the weir grew louder and more threatening.
"Dick," she said suddenly, "we can never pass that awful place without oars!" and she began to tie knots in, the rope with fingers that shook pitifully.
"Oh, I don't know!" I returned, with an assumption of ease I was very far from feeling; "and then, of course, we are bound to meet a boat or something—"
"But suppose we don't?"
"Oh, well, we aren't there yet—and er—let's talk of fish."
"Ah, Dick," she cried, "how can you treat the matter so lightly when we may be tossing down there in that awful water so very soon! We can never pass that weir without oars, and you know it, and—and—oh, Dick, why did you do it—how could you have been so mad?"
"Do what?" I inquired, staring.
With a sudden gesture she rose to her knees and fronted me.
"This!" she cried, and held up the severed painter. "It has been cut! Oh, Dick! Dick! how could you be so mad."