Fishel raised his eyes slowly, was afraid of moving much, and looked and looked, and saw nothing but water, water, and water.
"There's a big one coming down on us now, we must make a dash for it, for it's too late to row back."
So said Prokop, and rowed away with both hands, and the boat glided and slid like a fish through the water, and Fishel felt cold in every limb. He would have liked to question, but was afraid of interfering. However, again Prokop spoke of himself.
"If we don't win by a minute, it will be the worse for us."
Fishel can now no longer contain himself, and asks:
"How do you mean, the worse?"
"We shall be done for," says Prokop.
"Done for?"
"Done for."
"How do you mean, done for?" persists Fishel.