“About ten miles from here, and right past Peak’s Island,” yelled young Hallins. “That’s the quickest way.”
Then he raised his voice even higher, for the engine was no silent affair:
“But if you’re intending to land at the rock, you’ll have to have a dink.”
“A dinghy?” grumbled Pawlinson petulantly. “What for? Seconds count now, you know.”
“Here, I’ve got you,” replied the boy, whirling on an old fossil who had been silently viewing our departure. “Old Pete’ll lend you his punt. She tows like a breeze. She will cut down your speed; but you just got to have one if you mean to land there.”
Old Pete mumbled something around his pipestem;
“How’s that?” I queried impatiently.
“Oh, that’s all right,” assured young Hallins. “I’ll make it all right with Pete after you’ve gone.”
And, without further parley, he passed me the painter of one of those small scows that have justly won their way into favor among yachtsmen as tenders.
At first mention of this small delay, Pawlinson had gritted out an impatient imprecation; but a glance I later cast at him saw his brow clear at a thought.