“No,” said Iff coolly; “you can see I’m all right.”
“And Eph, sir? Where’s my husband?” she shrieked.
“Oh,” said Iff, at length identifying the woman. “You’ll find him down at the dock—dead drunk in the motor-boat,” he told her. “If I were you I’d go to him right away.”
“But whatever will we do for a place to sleep tonight?”
“Help yourself,” Iff replied with a generous wave of his hand “You’ve all Pennymint to ask shelter of, if you can manage to make your husband run the boat across.”
“But you—what’ll you do?”
“I’ve another boat handy,” Iff explained. “We’ll go in that.”
“And will you rebuild, sir?”
“No,” he said gravely, “I don’t think so. I fancy this is the last time I’ll ever set foot on Wreck Island. Now clear out,” he added with a sharp change of manner, “and see if you can’t sober that drunken fool up.”
Abashed, the woman cringed and turned away. Presently she broke into a clumsy run and vanished in the direction of the landing-stage.