He released his oars and let them trail in the still water. It looked peculiarly lifeless. Our small shell gradually slowed.
“Seems to be all smooth sailing here today, though,” I ventured.
“Overrated, for the benefit of tourists,” opined Sisson. “The water’s eaten out a little tunnel under the west wall, but there’s no real danger if you know the chart.”
“How many did you say were drowned when that launch went down?” again asked Leanor. Her great dark eyes were sparkling again now with a keen new interest in life—or was it the nearness to potential death?
“Eleven,” drawled Sisson. “The engineer jumped for it and made a landing on that bench of slate over there, and right there”—he smiled reminiscently—“he sat for seventy-two hours, with ‘water, water everywhere, nor any drop’—”
“And is it true that none of the life-preservers they were putting on when the launch sank was ever found?” Leanor also wanted to know.
“True enough,” said Sisson, “but that’s not unnatural. Drowning men lay hold of whatever they can and never, never turn loose. Why, I’ve seen the clawlike fingers of skeletons locked around sticks that wouldn’t bear up a cockroach!”
“Did you say it was a relatively calm day?” I questioned the boatman idly.
“Sure. Calm as it is right now,” he answered.