He went to a cupboard and poured himself out a glass of raw whisky and drank it. Then he beckoned to me to follow him down to the boat.
Chapter Two.
A load of turnips.
Mr Gorman seated himself silently in the stern, while I shoved off, and hauled up the sail.
The storm was blowing still, but more westerly, so that the water was quieter, and we could use the wind fairly to the point of the shoals. After that it would be hard work to make my father’s cabin.
I handed the sheet to his honour, and curled myself up in the bows. Maurice Gorman was no great seaman, as I knew. But it was not for me to thrust myself forward when he took the helm. Yet I confess I felt a secret pleasure as I looked at the breakers ahead, and wondered how soon he would call me aft to steer him through them.
To-night, as it seemed to me, he hugged the eastern shore more than usual, thereby laying up for himself all the harder task when the time came to cross in the face of the wind.
“Begging your honour’s pardon,” said I at last, “luff her, sir.”