"Sail! No, sculls."
"Did he pull well?"
"Not particularly well. Well enough, though, for a raw-boned chap like him. Now that I remember it, I think he was pretty handy with the oars--for a spell, you know. He'd be dead beat in a jim-crack with a heavy oar in a yawl, but he could fiddle pretty fairly with the oars he carried."
"Did you ever see him scull from the notch?"
"Ay, I have, sir."
"And was he handy from the notch, too?"
"Yes, in a hop-o'-my-thumb cockleshell like his. Why, you could twist her round your finger in a mill-race. But as far as I can remember, he could handle an oar aft as well as most of those that weren't brought up to the work from boys."
"And what happened to this miserable punt of his?"
"Well, I don't think, sir, I can remember that. I know he lost it in some kind of way or other--west, I think he said. Anyway, whether he said so or not, it must have been west somewhere, for if anything happened to the punt on the east shore he'd never come back to tell what it was, for there isn't a landing-place there for anything from the sea but gulls and curlews; and even if he was the strongest swimmer in the barony his swimming would be no use to him, for he could never get into Kilcash Bay--never get round the head."
"Although, as you say, the east is much more dangerous than the west, isn't it strange he should have lost his boat on the west side?"