. . . The boat, utterly neglected
by us, had floated up, broadside on, with the quiet tide, almost to
our feet. The dog sat on his haunches, waiting and watching for one
or other of us to give sign of life.
"I roused up Farrell. . . . My first thought was for Santa's body,
laid within the boat on the bottom-boards. 'Are we man enough,
between us, to lift her out?' I asked. 'Or shall we moor the boat
and climb for help? . . . There are certainly people on this island,
since this dog must have a master somewhere.'
"'She is a light weight,' said Farrell simply. 'Let us try. . . .
Her soul forgive me for leaving her, even so long as I have, in that
horrible boat!'
"So, weak as we were, we managed to lift Santa's body ashore and
carry it up the few yards of sand beyond what we judged to be a faint
tide-mark, close under the ferns. . . . After this we fetched ashore
the tool-chest and some loose articles that we judged to be
necessary--such as the cooking-pot, binoculars, and a spare coil or
two of rope and a ship's mallet; and Farrell searched the undercliff
for sea-birds' eggs, whilst I gave the boat a cleansing with baler
and sponge, redded her up after a fashion, and finally moored her off
with a shore-line, some twenty yards out on the placid water.
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