“Sure, b’y!” said Billy. “Where to?”
“Uncle George’s wharf-head. ’Tis a place as good as any.”
Off Uncle George’s wharf-head the water was 51 deep––deeper than Donald could fathom at low tide––and it was cold, and covered a rocky bottom, upon which a multitude of starfish and prickly sea-eggs lay in clusters. It was green, smooth and clear, too; sight carried straight down to where the purple-shelled mussels gripped the rocks.
The tide had fallen somewhat and was still on the ebb. Donald found it a long reach from the wharf to the water. By and by, as the water ran out of the harbour, the most he could do was to touch the tip of the mast of the miniature ship with his fingers. Then a little gust of wind crept round the corner of the wharf, rippling the water as it came near. It caught the sails of the new fore-and-after, and the little craft fell over on another tack and shot away.
“Here, you!” Donald cried. “Come back, will you?”
He reached for the mast. His fingers touched it, but the boat escaped before they closed. He laughed, hitched nearer to the edge of the wharf, and reached again. The wind had failed; the little boat was tossing in the ripples, below and just beyond his grasp.
“I can’t cotch her!” he called to Billy Topsail, 52 who was back near the net-horse, looking for squids.
Billy looked up, and laughed to see Donald’s awkward position––to see him hanging over the water, red-faced and straining. Donald laughed, too. At once he lost his balance and fell forward.
This was in the days before he could swim, so he floundered about in the water, beating it wildly, to bring himself to the surface. When he came up, Billy Topsail was leaning over to catch him. Donald lifted his arm. His fingers touched Billy’s, that was all––just touched them.
Then he sank; and when he came up again, and again lifted his arm, there was half a foot of space between his hand and Billy’s. Some measure of self-possession returned. He took a long breath, and let himself sink. Down he went, weighted by his heavy boots.