Just then Preston roused slightly and asked for water.
"Better, old man?" asked Mostyn, as he poured a few precious drops into the baler, and held the rim to the Acting Chief's dry lips.
"Hocussed an' sandbagged, that's what's happened to me," mumbled Preston thickly. "Where the hooligan Harry am I?" And, with a sudden movement, he jerked the baler out of Peter's hand.
The man was obviously still delirious. Before Mostyn could decide what to reply, Preston shut his eyes and went to sleep again.
Mostyn picked up the baler from where it had fallen under the stern-bench. A couple of spoonfuls of fresh water had been wasted.
"Is that land?" suddenly inquired Olive, pointing away on the port bow, where a low, dark line was just visible on the horizon, looking very much like a chain of serrated mountains.
"Cloud bank," replied Peter briefly. Then in explanation he added: "There's wind behind that lot, Miss Baird; probably more than we want. It may head us too."
Glancing into the compass hood to see that the girl was steering a correct course, Mostyn rapped on the thwart immediately abaft the canvas shelter in which Mrs. Shallop was either resting or brooding over more or less imaginary grievances.
"We'll have to unrig the tent," he announced. "There's a stiff breeze bearing down on us."
"I don't like stiff breezes," retorted the lady promptly. "I'd rather have the tent up to keep the wind out."