"You are not so frightened now."
"Not when I am busy; it—it was being left alone, and—and thought of that drowned man."
"Of course, but my being here makes a difference?"
"Always," she confessed frankly. "Somehow I can never be afraid with you. But—but what shall we do now?"
"I hardly know what to put you at—oh, yes, here is a tin, and you can bail out this water sloshing about in the bottom. That will be valuable service."
"What will you do?"
"Rig up the sail the best I can in the dark; there is breeze enough to give us some headway, and ship the rudder."
"Do you know which direction to steer?"
"Not now, but I have a compass in my pocket; a northeast course would be sure to bring us to the coast, and towns are scattered along. I found that out from Broussard yesterday."
She made no response, bending over with the tin dipper, and I went at my task, straightening out ropes so they would work easily through the blocks. In spite of the darkness I was not greatly hampered, as everything had been stored away in shipshape manner, and came conveniently to hand. The wind freshened perceptibly while I was thus engaged, veering into the southeast, so that all the cloth I dare spread was the jib and a closely reefed mainsail. The boat acted a bit cranky, but, confident she would stand up under this canvas, I crawled back to the tiller, eased off the sheet a trifle more, and waited results. We shipped a bucket full of water, and then settled into a good pace, a cream of surge along our port gunwale, and a white wake astern. The woman kept on bailing steadily, until the planks were dry, and then crept cautiously back to the thwart just in front of me, leaning over slightly to keep clear of the occasional flap of the sail.