As at the end of an hour and a half’s manful shoving the net progress made was a yard back into the stream of the river, the talents of the helmsman were not put to a very severe test.
“I say, it’s rather slow,” said Wally; “let’s have some of Rollitt’s particular.”
So while Percy with a small pair of scissors—none of the party, marvellous to relate, had brought a knife—was carving the remnant of ham, and Ashby was counting out nine brandy-balls from the bag, each member of the party produced one of his Abernethys, and fell-to with all the appetite that waits on hard and honest toil.
“Not much of a pace yet,” remarked D’Arcy. “Why, we’re going better now we’ve stopped rowing than we were before.”
“That’s because the wind’s changed,” said Wally. “If we’d only got a sail we could make her go.”
“Why not stick up the two poles, and fasten our coats or something between for a sail!” suggested Percy.
“Good idea! the poles are long enough for all the nine. One of ’em can go through right sleeves, and the other through left. It’ll make a ripping sail.”
So, despite the season of the year, the nine voyagers divested themselves of their coats, which were industriously threaded by the sleeves on either pole. The top coat was spiked by the hooks, and those below were ingeniously buttoned one to the other to keep them up.
Every one agreed it made a ripping sail. The difficulty was to hoist it. There were no holes in which to fix the parallel masts. They would have to be held in position, as the breeze was stiffening, and it required all hands aloft.
At length, by superhuman exertions, the complex fabric was slowly hoisted to the perpendicular, looking very like a ladder, up which nine scarecrows were clambering. However, no matter what it looked like now, as Wally predicted, they’d spank along.