Finally a little tug, carrying the end of a heavy cable attached to the steamer, swung out into the harbor. After describing a wide semicircle, it took up its position waiting for a signal. Soon it was given; and by skilful manipulation the little boat pulled the big one slowly away from the wharf and headed it out to sea. Its work done, the tug steamed fussily back to the dock.
“So,” said Martha suddenly, as they all lay in their steamer chairs, wrapped in rugs, and watching the rapidly receding shores of Nova Scotia against the sunset, “we got away without my having my third fall, or Nan losing her third pocketbook.”
“But,” said Jeanette, “you nearly fell, when you turned on your ankle, Mart; and Nan nearly lost her little red purse.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” declared Martha.
“Peut-on dire d’une chose qu’elle est perdue quand on sait où est die?”[1] quoted Jim softly.
“What’s that?” asked Martha.
“Didn’t you ever have that French exercise which tells about the sailor who lost the silver teapot?”
“Yes, of course; but what’s that got to do with it?”
“If you don’t know, I’ll never tell you,” laughed Nan.
Jeanette said nothing; for she was quite certain that the little red purse was not in Nan’s possession.