“Did you hear, Stukeley?”
“Map or tap, or something. But let’s go on. We’re late.”
“No. I must hear. Back a stroke, port oars. Why, starboard. I’ll pull back to find out. Way together.”
Fifty yards nearer to the ship they again lay on their oars. This time the hail was clear.
“Have you seen my book of maps?”
“No,” Margaret shouted. “You had it in your pocket last night.”
“What’s that you say?”
“You had it in your pocket last night.”
“Yes. But I can’t find it.”
“I’ve not had it. Ask Mr. Perrin.” He sat down in his seat, Cammock shouted a farewell, to which Margaret raised his hand in salute.