Three Boys | Page 7

the visitor in agony.
"What's the matter?"
"I--I thought--Pray don't do that!"
Kenneth could not refrain from joining in Scood's mirth, but he checked himself directly, and gave the lad a punch in the ribs, as he hauled at the mainsail.
"You'll have the boat over!" cried the shivering guest, white now with agony, as the sail filled and the boat careened, and began to rush through the water.
"Take more than that to send her over," cried Kenneth merrily, as he took the tiller. "Plenty of wind now, Scood."
Scoodrach laughed, and their passenger clung more tightly to his seat.
For the wind was rising to a good stiff breeze, the waves were beginning to show little caps of foam, and to the new-comer it seemed utter madness to be seated in such a frail cockle-shell, which kept on lying over from the pressure on the sail, and riding across the waves which hissed and rushed along the sides, and now and then sent a few drops flying over the sail.
"You'll soon get used to it," cried Kenneth, who felt disposed at first to be commiserating and ready to pity his guest; but the abject state of dread displayed roused the spirit of mischief latent in the lad, and, after a glance or two at Scoodrach, he felt compelled to enjoy his companion's misery.
"Is--is there any danger?" faltered the poor fellow at last, as the boat seemed to fly through the water.
"No, not much. Unless she goes down, eh, Scood?"
"Oh, she shall not go down chust direckly," said Scoodrach seriously. "She's a prave poat to sail."
"What's the matter?" cried Kenneth, as his passenger looked wildly round.
"Have you--a basin on board?" he faltered.
This was too much for the others. Scoodrach burst into a roar of laughter, in which Kenneth joined for a minute, and then, checking himself, he apologised.
"Nonsense!" he said; "you keep a stout heart. You'll like it directly. Got a line, Scood?"
"Yes; twa."
"Bait 'em and throw 'em out; we may get a mackerel or two."
"They've got spinners on them," said the lad sententiously, as he opened a locker in the bows, and took out a couple of reels.
"Don't--go quite so fast," said the visitor imploringly.
"Why not? It's safer like this--eh, Scood?"
"Oh yes; she's much safer going fast."
"But the waves! They'll be in the boat directly."
"Won't give 'em time to get in--will we, Scood? Haul in that sheet a little tighter."
This was done, and the boat literally rushed through the water.
"There, you're better already, aren't you?"
"I--I don't know."
"Oh, but I do. You'll want to have plenty of sails like this."
"In the young master's poat," said Scoodrach, watching the stranger with eyes which sparkled with mischief. "Wouldn't the young chentleman like to see the Grey Mare's Tail?"
"Ah, to be sure!" cried Kenneth; "you'd like to see that."
"Is--is the grey mare ashore?" faltered the visitor.
"Yes, just round that point--a mile ahead."
"Yes, please--I should like to see that," said the guest, with a sigh of relief, for he seemed to see safety in being nearer the shore.
"All right! We'll run for it," cried Kenneth; and he slightly altered the boat's course, so as to draw a little nearer to the land. "Wind's getting up beautifully."
"Getting up?"
"Yes. Blow quite a little gale to-night, I'll be bound."
"Is--is there any danger?"
"Oh, I don't know. We get a wreck sometimes--don't we, Scood?"
"Oh ay, very fine wrecks sometimes, and plenty of people trowned!"
"You mean wrecks of ships?"
"Yes; and boats too, like this--eh, Scood?"
"Oh yes; poats like this are often wrecked, and go to the pottom," said Scood maliciously.
There was a dead silence in the boat, during which Kenneth and Scood exchanged glances, and their tired companion clutched the seat more tightly.
"I say, your name's Blande, isn't it?" said Kenneth suddenly.
"Yes; Maximilian--I mean Max Blande."
"And you are going to stay with us?"
"I suppose so."
The lad gave his tormentor a wistful look, but it had no effect.
"Long?"
"I don't know. My father said I was to come down here. Is it much farther on?"
"Oh yes, miles and miles yet. We shall soon show you the Grey Mare's Tail now."
"Couldn't we walk the rest of the way, then?"
"Walk! No. Could we, Scood?"
"No, we couldn't walk," said the lad addressed; "and who'd want to walk when we've got such a peautiful poat?"
There was another silence, during which the boat rushed on, with Kenneth trickily steering so as to make their way as rough as possible, both boys finding intense enjoyment in seeing the pallid, frightened looks of their guest, and noting the spasmodic starts he gave whenever a little wave came with a slap against the bows and sprinkled them.
"I say, who's your father?" said Kenneth suddenly.
"Mr Blande of Lincoln's Inn. You are Mr Mackhai's son, are you not?"
"I am The Mackhai's son," cried Kenneth, drawing himself up stiffly.
"Yes; there's no Mr Mackhai here," cried Scoodrach fiercely. "She's the