"Have you heard about the mail-boat?"
"No."
"We've missed her."
"What d'you mean?" demanded Big George, blankly.
"I mean that the storm delayed us just long enough to ruin us."
"Why—er—let's wait till the next trip," offered the fisherman.
Emerson shook his head. "She may not be back here for eight weeks. No!
We're done for."
Balt was like a big boy in distress. His face wrinkled as if he were about to burst into loud lamentations; then a thought seized him.
"I'll tell you what we'll do!" he cried, with a heavy attempt at meeting the problem. "We'll put off the scheme for a year. We'll take plenty of time, and open up a year from next spring."
"No," said Emerson, with a dejected shake of the head. "If I can't put it through on the flash, I can't do it at all. My time is up. I'm down and out. All our pretty plans have gone to smash. You'd better go back to Kalvik, George."