“Stop the engine!”
I whirled in amazement at the deadly animosity that came into Pawlinson’s voice; and the searchlight—which had kept us steadily in its radiance—showed a countenance an equal match to the tone. Then a smile came over his face as he corrected:
“Throw her into the neutral!”
I did so, and our screw stopped.
“Now, haul up that punt’s painter and get into the tub.”
“Get into the punt?” I cried, mystified.
“Into the punt, I said, didn’t I?” shrilled the man with me. I can scarcely call him Pawlinson. I have never seen rage mount much higher as he busied himself setting the steering wheel to a certain spoke. The gear was a good one, and would hold to any setting of rudder.
“But why?” I ventured further; then regretted the words, and forthwith did as he had ordered.
I brought the punt alongside, sprang into it, and stood steadying, awaiting what would come next.
But I snatched a second for a peek over my shoulder.