"I won't touch the tiller; I don't want the other sail hoisted," persisted Kate.
"What are you afraid of? I didn't think you were a coward. If I had, I shouldn't have asked you to come with me."
"I'm not a coward, any more than you are. I don't see what you want to hoist the other sail for; we are going like fury through the water now."
"We need more head sail," answered Fanny, using an expression she had borrowed from the nautical speeches of Ben, the boatman.
"No, we don't need more head sail," replied Kate, who, however, had not the most remote idea of the meaning of her friend's language.
"Take the tiller, Kate, and don't bother me."
"I will not."
"Then I will hoist the sail, and let the boat take care of herself while I do it. If she is upset, it will be your fault,—not mine."
Fanny was resolute; she had a will, as well as a way, of her own. She did not want any advice, and she was not willing to take any. She looked upon her companion as a weak-minded, poor-spirited girl, and she treated her opinions and her wishes with the utmost contempt, now that she had her completely in her power. It was useless for Kate to attempt to oppose her.
"I don't know anything about the tiller, as you call it. I don't even know what it is, and I'm sure I couldn't tell what to do with it," continued Kate.