"Why?" Bivens asked, incredulously.
"They'd freeze to death in an open boat to-night."
"Norwegian sailors? Bosh! Not on your life! They were born on icebergs."
Stuart rose and looked anxiously at the receding tide. He determined to try to reach the yacht at once. He put the guns into their cases, snapped the lids of the ammunition boxes, stowed the ducks he had killed under the stern of the boat, and stepped out into the shallow, swiftly moving water. He decided to ignore Bivens and regard him as so much junk. He pulled the boat out of the blind, shoved it among the decoys, and took them up quickly while the little financier sat muttering peevish, foolish complaints.
"Now if you will lie down on the stern deck, I'll see if I can shove her."
"Why can't I sit up?" Bivens growled.
"You can, of course, but I can't move this boat against the wind if you do."
"All right, but it's a rotten position to be in and I'm getting cold."
Stuart made no reply, but began to shove the little boat as rapidly as possible across the shallow water.
The snow had ceased to fall and the cold was increasing every moment. He scanned the horizon anxiously, but could see no sign of the disabled tender.