Peering down through the weed, I saw
that a cord knotted about its right ankle ended in another pig of
ballast, three-parts covered by the prismatic sand.
"'My God!' said Farrell, and shivered.
"'Well, he's no use to us, even if we do fish him up,' said I, pretty
grimly. 'Here's the dog's owner, and that's as far as we get.
Since a dog--even so intelligent a pup as Rover here--can't very well
attach a weight to his master's ankle and cast him overboard--let
alone pulling his boat above high water and stowing sail--we'll
conclude that this fellow deliberately made away with himself.
As I make it out, the dog, thus marooned, struck pretty frantically
for the high ground. Lost dogs--and lost children, for that matter--
always make up hill, dark or daylight. I suppose it's the primitive
instinct to search for a view. . . . But anyway, here's a boat.
She's unseaworthy, as she lies: but her timbers look sound enough if
we can staunch her, and the first thing is to get her down to the
water and see how fast she fills. We've a baler, to cope with the
leak .
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