Blueneck staggered to his feet; he was still very unsteady, but the rubbing had partially restored his circulation and he was just able to stumble along.
Pet pointed to the three kegs.
“Carry two,” she said shortly.
Blueneck looked around him hopelessly. It was still dark and lonely and some of the horror he had felt when he first saw Pet Salt returned to him. He shuddered; the bent old figure in front of him clad in dirty, evil-smelling rags seemed again to take on some of the fear-inspiring qualities of a fiend or marsh-goblin. He struggled on to where the kegs were lying and with great difficulty hoisted one onto his shoulder.
Pet lifted up another.
“Put this under your other arm,” she said, “and mind your stepping; it’s heavy.”
Blueneck took it without a word.
Pet picked up the last keg and turned to him, her ugly bulbous face showing red with exertion in the lantern’s flickering light.
“Now follow after me,” she said, and hobbled off.
Long afterward Blueneck described this journey from the bank of seaweed to Ben Farran’s boat as a walk through hell itself.