“That’s really brilliant,” she bubbled. “Oh, Saint, it’s going to be the most fearfully thrilling thing that ever happened—if we can only bring it off!”
He gazed sadly down at her. There it was—a tank of mulligatawny big enough to drown a brontosaurus, and he’d fallen right in before he knew what was happening. He shook his head.
“Kid,” he said, “piracy on the low seas isn’t part of the curriculum at Mayfield, is it?”
“I can swim a couple of miles any day of the week.”
“Can you climb eighteen feet of anchor chain at the end of it?” objected the Saint. “Can you back yourself to put a man to sleep before he can loose a yell? Can you make yourself unpleasant with a belaying-pin if it comes to a riot? I hate to have to damp your ardour, Pat, but a woman can’t be expected to play that game.”
She was up in arms at once.
“Saint, you’re trying to elbow me out again!” she accused. “Possibly you’ve never met anybody like me before—I flatter myself I’m a bit out of the ruck in some ways. And I won’t be packed up in cotton-wool! Whatever you go into, I’m going with you.”
Then he let her have it from the shoulder.
“Finally,” he said in a level voice, “how d’you fancy yourself as a prisoner on that tub, at the mercy of a bunch like the Tiger’s, if we happen to lose? We might, you know. Think it over.”
“You needn’t worry,” she said. “I shall carry a gun—and save one cartridge.”