. . and when we have her more or less staunch, here's the way
around to our camp. Hurry up your wits!' I added sharply.
"'If we launch her here,' he twittered, 'she'll settle down on
_that_!'
"'Then run,' said I, 'and, with all the knowledge you ever picked up
in Tottenham Court Road, fetch every grass and fibre you can collect,
to stuff her seams. I'll do the sailing while the wind's fair
offshore, as it is at present. When it heads us, I'll do the
pulling. Man alive! think of your burst boot! For my part, I'm
willing enough to stay here as anywhere: or you can stay, and I'll
start back for camp, and we'll share this island like two kings, you
keeping this imperial anchorage.'
"But of course this had him beaten. He helped me launch the boat and
ran to collect stuffing for her seams, while I sat in her and baled,
baled, baled. . . . It was pretty eerie to sit there alone--for the
dog had gone with Farrell--fighting the water, and feel her settling,
if for five minutes I gave up the struggle, down nearer and nearer
upon the shoulders of that drowned corpse with the hidden face.
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