The Luck of the Stowaway
At Esens Station I reversed my Norden tactics, jumped out smartly, and
got to the door of egress first of all, gave up my ticket, and hung
about the gate of the station under cover of darkness. Fortune smiled
still; there was no vehicle in waiting at all, and there were only half
a dozen passengers. Two of these were the cloaked gentlemen who had
been so nearly left behind at Norden, and another was von Brüning. The
latter walked well in advance of the first pair, but at the gate on to
the high road the three showed a common purpose, in that, unlike the
rest, who turned towards Esens town, they turned southwards; much to my
perplexity, for this was the contrary direction to Bensersiel and the
sea. I, with my bundle on my shoulder, had been bringing up the rear,
and, as their faithful shadow, turned to the right too, without
foreseeing the consequence. When it was too late to turn back I saw
that, fifty yards ahead, the road was barred by the gates of a level
crossing, and that the four of us must inevitably accumulate at the
barrier till the train had steamed away. This, in fact, happened, and
for a minute or two we were all in a group, elaborately indifferent to
one another, silent, but I am sure very conscious. As for me, “secret
laughter tickled all my soul”. When the gates were opened the three
seemed disposed to lag, so I tactfully took my cue, trudged briskly on
ahead, and stopped after a few minutes to listen. Hearing nothing I
went cautiously back and found that they had disappeared; in which
direction was not long in doubt, for I came on a grassy path leading
into the fields on the left or west of the road, and though I could see
no one I heard the distant murmur of receding voices.
I took my bearings collectedly, placed one foot on the path, thought
better of it, and turned back towards Esens. I knew without reference
to the map that that path would bring them to the Benser Tief at a
point somewhere near the timber-yard. In a fog I might have followed
them there; as it was, the night was none too dark, and I had my
strength to husband; and stamped on my memory were the words “the tide
serves”. I judged it a wiser use of time and sinew to anticipate them
at Bensersiel by the shortest road, leaving them to reach it by way of
the devious Tief, to examine which was, I felt convinced, one of their
objects.
It was nine o’clock of a fresh wild night, a halo round the beclouded
moon. I passed through quiet Esens, and in an hour I was close to
Bensersiel, and could hear the sea. In the rooted idea that I should
find Grimm on the outskirts, awaiting visitors, I left the road short
of the village, and made a circuit to the harbour by way of the
sea-wall. The lower windows of the inn shed a warm glow into the night,
and within I could see the village circle gathered over cards, and
dominated as of old by the assertive little postmaster, whose
high-pitched, excitable voice I could clearly distinguish, as he sat
with his cap on the back of his head and a “feine schnapps” at his
elbow. The harbour itself looked exactly the same as I remembered it a
week ago. The post-boat lay in her old berth at the eastern jetty, her
mainsail set and her twin giants spitting over the rail. I hailed them
boldly from the shore (without showing them who I was), and was told
they were starting for Langeoog in a few minutes; the wind was
off-shore, the mails aboard, and the water just high enough. “Did I
want a passage?” “No, I thought I would wait.” Positive that my party
could never have got here so soon, I nevertheless kept an eye on the
galliot till she let go her stern-rope and slid away. One contingency
was eliminated. Some loiterers dispersed, and all port business
appeared to be ended for the night.
Three-quarters of an hour of strained suspense ensued. Most of it I
spent on my knees in a dark angle between the dyke and the western
jetty, whence I had a strategic survey of the basin; but I was driven
at times to relieve inaction by sallies which increased in audacity. I
scouted on the road beyond the bridge, hovered round the lock, and
peered in at the inn parlour; but nowhere could I see a trace of Grimm.
I examined every floating object in the harbour (they were very few),
dropped on to two lighters and pried under tarpaulins, boarded a
deserted tug and two or three clumsy rowboats tied up to a
mooring-post. Only one of these had the look of readiness, the rest
being devoid of oars and rowlocks; a discouraging state of things for a
prospective boat-lifter. It was the sight of these rowboats that
suggested a last and most distracting possibility, namely, that the
boat in waiting, if boat there were, might be not in the harbour at
all, but somewhere on the sands outside the dyke, where, at this high
state of the tide, it would have water and to spare. Back to the dyke
then; but as I peered seaward on the way, contingencies evaporated and
a solid fact supervened, for I saw the lights of a steamboat
approaching the harbour mouth. I had barely time to gain my coign of
vantage before she had swept in between the piers, and with a fitful
swizzling of her screw was turning and backing down to a berth just
ahead of one of the lighters, and not fifty feet from my hiding-place.
A deck-hand jumped ashore with a rope, while the man at the wheel gave
gruff directions. The vessel was a small tug, and the man at the wheel
disclosed his identity when, having rung off his engines, he jumped
ashore also, looked at his watch in the beam of the sidelight, and
walked towards the village. It was Grimm, by the height and build—Grimm
clad in a long tarpaulin coat and a sou’wester. I watched him cross the
shaft of light from the inn window and disappear in the direction of
the canal.
Another sailor now appeared and helped his fellow to tie up the tug.
The two together then went aft and began to set about some job whose
nature I could not determine. To emerge was perilous, so I set about a
job of my own, tearing open my bundle and pulling an oilskin jacket and
trousers over my clothes, and discarding my peaked cap for a
sou’-wester. This operation was prompted instantaneously by the garb of
two sailors, who in hauling on the forward warp came into the field of
the mast-head light.
It was something of a gymnastic masterpiece, since I was lying—or,
rather, standing aslant—on the rough sea-wall, with crannies of brick
for foothold and the water plashing below me; but then I had not lived
in the _Dulcibella_ for nothing. My chain of thought, I fancy, was
this—the tug is to carry my party; I cannot shadow a tug in a rowboat,
yet I intend to shadow my party; I must therefore go with them in the
tug, and the first and soundest step is to mimic her crew. But the next
step was a hard matter, for the crew having finished their job sat side
by side on the bulwarks and lit their pipes. However, a little
pantomime soon occurred, as amusing as it was inspiriting. They seemed
to consult together, looking from the tug to the inn and from the inn
to the tug. One of them walked a few paces inn-wards and beckoned to
the other, who in his turn called something down the engine-room
skylight, and then joined his mate in a scuttle to the inn. Even while
I watched the pantomime I was sliding off my boots, and it had not been
consummated a second before I had them in my arms and was tripping over
the mud in my stocking feet. A dozen noiseless steps and I was over the
bulwarks between the wheel and the smoke-stack, casting about for a
hiding-place. The conventional stowaway hides in the hold, but there
was only a stokehold here, occupied moreover; nor was there an empty
apple-barrel, such as Jim of _Treasure Island_ found so useful. As far
as I could see—and I dared not venture far for fear of the skylight—the
surface of the deck offered nothing secure. But on the farther or
starboard side, rather abaft the beam, there was a small boat in
davits, swung outboard, to which common sense, and perhaps a vague
prescience of its after utility, pointed irresistibly. In any case,
discrimination was out of place, so I mounted the bulwark and gently
entered my refuge. The tackles creaked a trifle, oars and seats impeded
me; but well before the thirsty truants had returned I was settled on
the floor boards between two thwarts, so placed that I could, if
necessary, peep over the gunwale.
The two sailors returned at a run, and very soon after voices
approached, and I recognised that of Herr Schenkel chattering volubly.
He and Grimm boarded the tug and went down a companionway aft, near
which, as I peeped over, I saw a second skylight, no bigger than the
_Dulcibella_’s, illuminated from below. Then I heard a cork drawn, and
the kiss of glasses, and in a minute or two they re-emerged. It was
apparent that Herr Schenkel was inclined to stay and make merry, and
that Grimm was anxious to get rid of him, and none too courteous in
showing it. The former urged that to-morrow’s tide would do, the latter
gave orders to cast off, and at length observed with an angry oath that
the water was falling, and he must start; and, to clinch matters, with
a curt good-night, he went to the wheel and rang up his engines. Herr
Schenkel landed and strutted off in high dudgeon, while the tug’s screw
began to revolve. We had only glided a few yards on when the engines
stopped, a short blast of the whistle sounded, and, before I had had
time to recast the future, I heard a scurry of footsteps from the
direction of the dyke, first on the bank, next on the deck. The last of
these new arrivals panted audibly as he got aboard and dropped on the
planks with an unelastic thud.
Her complement made up, the tug left the harbour, but not alone. While
slowly gathering way the hull checked all at once with a sharp jerk,
recovered, and increased its speed. We had something in tow—what? The
lighter, of course, that had been lying astern of us.
Now I knew what was in that lighter, because I had been to see, half an
hour ago. It was no lethal cargo, but coal, common household coal; not
a full load of it, I remembered—just a good-sized mound amidships,
trimmed with battens fore and aft to prevent shifting. “Well,” thought
I, “this is intelligible enough. Grimm was ostensibly there to call for
a load of coal for Memmert. But does that mean we are going to
Memmert?” At the same time I recalled a phrase overheard at the depôt,
“Only one—half a load.” Why half a load?
For some few minutes there was a good deal of movement on deck, and of
orders shouted by Grimm and answered by a voice from far astern on the
lighter. Presently, however, the tug warmed to her work, the hull
vibrated with energy, and an ordered peace reigned on board. I also
realised that having issued from the boomed channel we had turned
westward, for the wind, which had been blowing us fair, now blew
strongly over the port beam.
I peeped out of my eyrie and was satisfied in a moment that as long as
I made no noise, and observed proper prudence, I was perfectly safe
_until the boat was wanted_. There were no deck lamps; the two
skylights diffused but a sickly radiance, and I was abaft the
side-lights. I was abaft the wheel also, though thrillingly near it in
point of distance—about twelve feet, I should say; and Grimm was
steering. The wheel, I should mention here, was raised, as you often
see them, on a sort of pulpit, approached by two or three steps and
fenced by a breast-high arc of boarding. Only one of the crew was
visible, and he was acting as look-out in the extreme bows, the rays of
the masthead lights—for a second had been hoisted in sign of
towage—glistening on his oilskin back. The other man, I concluded, was
steering the lighter, which I could dimly locate by the pale foam at
her bow.
And the passengers? They were all together aft, three of them, leaning
over the taffrail, with their backs turned to me. One was short and
stout—Böhme unquestionably; the panting and the thud on the planks had
prepared me for that, though where he had sprung from I did not know.
Two were tall, and one of these must be von Brüning. There ought to be
four, I reckoned; but three were all I could see. And what of the
third? It must be he who “insists on coming”, the unknown superior at
whose instance and for whose behoof this secret expedition had been
planned. And who could he be? Many times, needless to say, I had asked
myself that question, but never till now, when I had found the
rendezvous and joined the expedition, did it become one of burning
import.
“Any weather” was another of those stored-up phrases that were _à
propos._ It was a dirty, squally night, not very cold, for the wind
still hung in the S.S.W.—an off-shore wind on this coast, causing no
appreciable sea on the shoal spaces we were traversing. In the matter
of our bearings, I set myself doggedly to overcome that paralysing
perplexity, always induced in me by night or fog in these intricate
waters; and, by screwing round and round, succeeded so far as to
discover and identify two flashing lights—one alternately red and
white, far and faint astern; the other right ahead and rather stronger,
giving white flashes only. The first and least familiar was, I made
out, from the lighthouse on Wangeroog; the second, well known to me as
our beacon star in the race from Memmert, was the light on the centre
of Norderney Island, about ten miles away.
I had no accurate idea of the time, for I could not see my watch, but I
thought we must have started about a quarter past eleven. We were
travelling fast, the funnel belching out smoke and the bow-wave curling
high; for the tug appeared to be a powerful little craft, and her load
was comparatively light.
So much for the general situation. As for my own predicament, I was in
no mood to brood on the hazards of this mad adventure, a hundredfold
more hazardous than my fog-smothered eavesdropping at Memmert. The
crisis, I knew, had come, and the reckless impudence that had brought
me here must serve me still and extricate me. Fortune loves rough
wooing. I backed my luck and watched.
The behaviour of the passengers struck me as odd. They remained in a
row at the taffrail, gazing astern like regretful emigrants, and
sometimes, gesticulating and pointing. Now no vestige of the low land
was visible, so I was driven to the conclusion that it was the lighter
they were discussing; and I date my awakening from the moment that I
realised this. But the thread broke prematurely; for the passengers
took to pacing the deck, and I had to lie low. When next I was able to
raise my head they were round Grimm at the wheel, engaged, as far as I
could discover from their gestures, in an argument about our course and
the time, for Grimm looked at his watch by the light of a hand-lantern.
We were heading north, and I knew by the swell that we must be near the
Accumer Ee, the gap between Langeoog and Baltrum. Were we going out to
open sea? It came over me with a rush that we _must,_ if we were to
drop this lighter at Memmert. Had I been Davies I should have been
quicker to seize certain rigid conditions of this cruise, which no
human power could modify. We had left after high tide. The water
therefore was falling everywhere; and the tributary channels in rear of
the islands were slowly growing impassable. It was quite thirty miles
to Memmert, with three watersheds to pass; behind Baltrum, Norderney,
and Juist. A skipper with nerve and perfect confidence might take us
over one of these in the dark, but most of the run would infallibly
have to be made outside. I now better understood the protests of Herr
Schenkel to Grimm. Never once had we seen a lighter in tow in the open
sea, though plenty behind the barrier of islands; indeed it was the
very existence of the sheltered byways that created such traffic as
there was. It was only Grimm’s _métier_ and the incubus of the lighter
that had suggested Memmert as our destination at all, and I began to
doubt it now. That tricky hoop of sand had befooled us before.
At this moment, and as if to corroborate my thought, the telegraph rang
and the tug slowed down. I effaced myself and heard Grimm shouting to
the man on the lighter to starboard his helm, and to the look-out to
come aft. The next order froze my very marrow; it was “lower away”.
Someone was at the davits of my boat fingering the tackles; the forward
fall-rope actually slipped in the block and tilted the boat a fraction.
I was just wondering how far it was to swim to Langeoog, when a strong,
imperious voice (unknown to me) rang out, “No, no! We don’t want the
boat. The swell’s nothing; we can jump! Can’t we, Böhme?” The speaker
ended with a jovial laugh. “Mercy!” thought I, “are _they_ going to
swim to Langeoog?” but I also gasped for relief. The tug rolled
lifelessly in the swell for a little, and footsteps retreated aft.
There were cries of “Achtung!” and some laughter, one big bump and a
good deal of grinding; and on we moved again, taking the strain of the
tow-rope gingerly, and then full-speed ahead. The passengers, it
seemed, preferred the lighter to the tug for cruising in; coal-dust and
exposure to clean planks and a warm cuddy. When silence reigned again I
peeped out. Grimm was at the wheel still, impassively twirling the
spokes, with a glance over his shoulder at his precious freight. And,
after all, we _were_ going outside.
Close on the port hand lay a black foam-girt shape, the east spit of
Baltrum. It fused with the night, while we swung slowly round to
windward over the troubled bar. Now we were in the spacious deeps of
the North Sea; and feeling it too in increase of swell and volleys of
spray.
At this point evolutions began. Grimm gave the wheel up to the
look-out, and himself went to the taffrail, whence he roared back
orders of “Port!” or “Starboard!” in response to signals from the
lighter. We made one complete circle, steering on each point of the
wind in succession, after that worked straight out to sea till the
water was a good deal rougher, and back again at a tangent, till in
earshot of the surf on the island beach. There the manœuvres, which
were clearly in the nature of a trial trip, ended; and we hove to, to
transship our passengers. They, when they came aboard, went straight
below, and Grimm, having steadied the tug on a settled course and
entrusted the wheel to the sailor again, stripped off his dripping
oilskin coat, threw it down on the cabin skylight, and followed them.
The course he had set was about west, with Norderney light a couple of
points off the port bow. The course for Memmert? Possibly; but I cared
not, for my mind was far from Memmert to-night. _It was the course for
England too._ Yes, I understood at last. I was assisting at an
experimental rehearsal of a great scene, to be enacted, perhaps, in the
near future—a scene when multitudes of seagoing lighters, carrying full
loads of soldiers, not half loads of coals, should issue
simultaneously, in seven ordered fleets, from seven shallow outlets,
and, under escort of the Imperial Navy, traverse the North Sea and
throw themselves bodily upon English shores.
Indulgent reader, you may be pleased to say that I have been very
obtuse; and yet, with humility, I protest against that verdict.
Remember that, recent as are the events I am describing, it is only
since they happened that the possibility of an invasion of England by
Germany has become a topic of public discussion. Davies and I had
never—I was going to say had never considered it; but that would not be
accurate, for we had glanced at it once or twice; and if any single
incident in his or our joint cruise had provided a semblance of
confirmation, he, at any rate, would have kindled to that spark. But
you will see how perversely from first to last circumstances drove us
deeper and deeper into the wrong groove, till the idea became
inveterate that the secret we were seeking was one of defence and not
offence. Hence a complete mental somersault was required, and, as an
amateur, I found it difficult; the more so that the method of invasion,
as I darkly comprehended it now, was of such a strange and
unprecedented character; for orthodox invasions start from big ports
and involve a fleet of ocean transports, while none of our clues
pointed that way. To neglect obvious methods, to draw on the obscure
resources of an obscure strip of coast, to improve and exploit a
quantity of insignificant streams and tidal outlets, and thence,
screened by the islands, to despatch an armada of light-draught barges,
capable of flinging themselves on a correspondingly obscure and
therefore unexpected portion of the enemy’s coast; that was a
conception so daring, aye, and so quixotic in some of its aspects, that
even now I was half incredulous. Yet it must be the true one. Bit by
bit the fragments of the puzzle fell into order till a coherent whole
was adumbrated. [The reader will find the whole matter dealt with in
the Epilogue.]
The tug surged on into the night; a squall of rain leapt upon us and
swept hissing astern. Baltrum vanished and the strands of Norderney
beamed under transient moonlight. Drunk with triumph, I cuddled in my
rocking cradle and ransacked every unvisited chamber of the memory,
tossing out their dusty contents, to make a joyous bonfire of some, and
to see the residue take life and meaning in the light of the great
revelation.
My reverie was of things, not persons; of vast national issues rather
than of the poignant human interests so closely linked with them. But
on a sudden I was recalled, with a shock, to myself, Davies, and the
present.
We were changing our course, as I knew by variations in the whirl of
draughts which whistled about me. I heard Grimm afoot again, and,
choosing my moment, surveyed the scene. Broad on the port-beam were the
garish lights of Norderney town and promenade, and the tug, I
perceived, was drawing in to enter the See Gat. _[See Chart B.]_
Round she came, hustling through the broken water of the bar, till her
nose was south and the wind was on the starboard bow. Not a mile from
me were the villa and the yacht, and the three persons of the
drama—three, that is, if Davies were safe.
Were we to land at Norderney harbour? Heavens, what a magnificent
climax!—if only I could rise to it. My work here was done. At a stroke
to rejoin Davies and be free to consummate our designs!
A desperate idea of cutting the davit-tackles—I blush to think of the
stupidity—was rejected as soon as it was born, and instead, I
endeavoured to imagine our approach to the pier. My boat hung on the
starboard side; that would be the side away from the quay, and the tide
would be low. I could swarm down the davits during the stir of arrival,
drop into the sea and swim the few yards across the dredged-out
channel, wade through the mud to within a short distance of the
_Dulcibella_, and swim the rest. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes and
wriggled my cramped legs.... Hullo! why was Grimm leaving the helm
again? Back he went to the cabin, leaving the sailor at the helm.... We
ought to be turning to port now; but no—on we went, south, for the
mainland.
Though one plan was frustrated, the longing to get to Davies, once
implanted, waxed apace.
Our destination was at last beyond dispute. _[See Chart.]_ The channel
we were in was the same that we had cut across on our blind voyage to
Memmert, and the same my ferry-steamer had followed two days ago. It
was a _cul-de-sac_ leading to one place only, the landing stage at
Norddeich. The only place on the whole coast, now I came to think of
it, where the tug could land at this tide. There the quay would be on
the starboard side, and I saw myself tied to my eyrie while the
passengers landed and the tug and lighter turned back for Memmert; at
Memmert, dawn, and discovery.
There was some way out—some way out, I repeated to myself; some way to
reap the fruit of Davies’s long tutelage in the lore of this strange
region. What would _he_ do?
For answer there came the familiar _frou-frou_ of gentle surf on drying
sands. The swell was dying away, the channel narrowing; dusky and weird
on the starboard hand stretched leagues of new-risen sand. Two men only
were on deck; the moon was quenched under the vanguard clouds of a
fresh squall.
A madcap scheme danced before me. The time, I _must_ know the time!
Crouching low and cloaking the flame with my jacket I struck a match;
2.30 a.m.—the tide had been ebbing for about three hours and a half.
Low water about five; they would be aground till 7.30. Danger to life?
None. Flares and rescuers? Not likely, with “him who insists” on board;
besides, no one could come, there being no danger. I should have a fair
wind and a fair tide for _my_ trip. Grimm’s coat was on the skylight;
we were both clean-shaved.
The helmsman gazed ahead, intent on his difficult course, and the wind
howled to perfection. I knelt up and examined one of the davit-tackles.
There was nothing remarkable about it, a double and a single block
(like our own peak halyards), the lower one hooked into a ring in the
boat, the hauling part made fast to a cleat on the davit itself.
Something there must be to give lateral support or the boat would have
racketed abroad in the roll outside. The support, I found, consisted of
two lanyards spliced to the davits and rove through holes in the keel.
These I leaned over and cut with my pocket-knife; the result being a
barely perceptible swaying of the boat, for the tug was under the lee
of sands and on an even keel. Then I left my hiding-place, climbing out
of the stern sheets by the after-davit, and preparing every successive
motion with exquisite tenderness, till I stood on the deck. In another
moment I was at the cabin skylight, lifting Grimm’s long oilskin coat.
(A second’s yielding to temptation here; but no, the skylight was
ground glass, fastened from below. So, on with the coat, up with the
collar, and forward to the wheel on tiptoe.) As soon as I was up to the
engine-room skylight (that is to say, well ahead of the cabin roof) I
assumed a natural step, went up to the pulpit and touched the helmsman
on the arm, as I had seen Grimm do. The man stepped aside, grunting
something about a light, and I took the wheel from him. Grimm was a man
of few words, so I just jogged his satellite, and pointed forward. He
went off like a lamb to his customary place in the bows, not having
dreamt—why should he?—of examining me, but in him I had instantly
recognised one of the crew of the _Kormoran_.
My ruse developed in all its delicious simplicity. We were, I
estimated, about half-way to Norddeich, in the Buse Tief, a channel of
a navigable breadth, at the utmost of two hundred yards at this period
of the tide. Two faint lights, one above the other, twinkled far ahead.
What they meant I neither knew nor cared, since the only use I put them
to was to test the effect of the wheel, for this was the first time I
had ever tasted the sweets of command on a steamboat. A few cautious
essays taught me the rudiments, and nothing could hinder the
catastrophe now.
I edged over to starboard—that was the side I had selected—and again a
little more, till the glistening back of the look-out gave a slight
movement; but he was a well-drilled minion, with implicit trust in the
“old man”. Now, hard over! and spoke by spoke I gave her the full
pressure of the helm. The look-out shouted a warning, and I raised my
arm in calm acknowledgement. A cry came from the lighter, and I
remember I was just thinking “What the Dickens’ll happen to her?” when
the end came; a _euthanasia_ so mild and gradual (for the sands are
fringed with mud) that the disaster was on us before I was aware of it.
There was just the tiniest premonitory shuddering as our keel clove the
buttery medium, a cascade of ripples from either beam, and the wheel
jammed to rigidity in my hands, as the tug nestled up to her
resting-place.
In the scene of panic that followed, it is safe to say that I was the
only soul on board who acted with methodical tranquillity. The look-out
flew astern like an arrow, bawling to the lighter. Grimm, with the
passengers tumbling up after him, was on deck in an instant, storming
and cursing; flung himself on the wheel which I had respectfully
abandoned, jangled the telegraph, and wrenched at the spokes. The tug
listed over under the force of the tide; wind, darkness, and rain
aggravated the confusion.
For my part, I stepped back behind the smoke stack, threw off my robe
of office, and made for the boat. Long and bitter experience of running
aground had told me that that was sure to be wanted. On the way I
cannoned into one of the passengers and pressed him into my service;
incidentally seeing his face, and verifying an old conjecture. It was
one who, in Germany, has a better right to insist than anyone else.
As we reached the davits there was a report like a pistol-shot from the
port-side—the tow-rope parting, I believe, as the lighter with her
shallower draught swung on past the tug. Fresh tumult arose, in which I
heard: “Lower the boat,” from Grimm; but the order was already
executed. My ally the Passenger and I had each cast off a tackle, and
slacked away with a run; that done, I promptly clutched the wire guy to
steady myself, and tumbled in. (It was not far to tumble, for the tug
listed heavily to starboard; think of our course, and the set of the
ebb stream, and you will see why.) The forward fall unhooked sweetly;
but the after one lost play. “Slack away,” I called, peremptorily, and
felt for my knife. My helper above obeyed; the hook yielded; I filliped
away the loose tackle, and the boat floated away.