“Well,” Ruth sighed as they dropped in the sun among the wild sweet peas, “we—we’re safe.”
“Are we?” Betty’s face still showed signs of terror.
“Yes. They never shoot at the island. But you’ve got to get out of those clothes,” Ruth added quickly.
In silence she helped Betty out of her sodden garments. After rubbing and chafing her limbs until the pink of health came to them, she wrapped her in her own storm coat and told her to lie there in the sun while she wrung her clothes out and spread them on the rocks to dry.
“You—your punt!” Betty said at last with a choke in her voice that came near to a sob.
“They’re firing again now,” said Ruth. “We may be able to get it and tow it in later. Can’t now. But didn’t you hear the guns?” she asked.
“The guns? Why, yes, I guess I did. Must have—as in a dream. They’re always booming away over at the fort. And I was having such wonderful luck! Lots of cod, one ten-pounder. And a polluk long as I am. Just hooked one so big I couldn’t land him when that terrible thing happened! But Ruth—do you truly think we can save your punt?”
“Might. I hope so. Current is strong. That will carry it away. Hope they stop soon.”
“I hope so,” said Betty dreamily. The shock, the bright sunshine, the drug-like scent of wild sweet peas were getting the better of her. Soon, with head pillowed on her arm, she was fast asleep.
As she slept Ruth thought of many things, of the seagulls soaring overhead, of her lost punt, of the booming, bursting shells, of the old ship Black Gull and of the strange secret room in the depths of old Fort Skammel.