o where the purple-shelled mussels gripped the rocks.

The tide had fallen somewhat and was still on the ebb. Donald found it
a long reach from the wharf to the water. By and by, as the water ran
out of the harbour, the most he could do was to touch the tip of the
mast of the miniature ship with his fingers. Then a little gust of
wind crept round the corner of the wharf, rippling the water as it
came near. It caught the sails of the new fore-and-after, and the
little craft fell over on another tack and shot away.

"Here, you!" Donald cried. "Come back, will you?"

He reached for the mast. His fingers touched it, but the boat escaped
before they closed. He laughed, hitched nearer to the edge of the
wharf, and reached again. The wind had failed; the little boat was
tossing in the ripples, below and just beyond his grasp.

"I can't cotch her!" he called to Billy Topsail, who was back near
the net-horse, looking for squids.

Billy looked up, and laughed to see Donald's awkward position--to see
him hanging over the water, red-faced and straining. Donald laughed,
too. At once he lost his balance and fell forward.

This was in the days before he could swim, so he floundered about in
the water, beating it wildly, to bring himself to the surface. When he
came up, Billy Topsail was leaning over to catch him. Donald lifted
his arm. His fingers touched Billy's, that was all--just touched
them.

Then he sank; and when he came up again, and again lifted his arm,
there was half a foot of space between his hand and Billy's. Some
measure of self-possession returned. He took a long breath, and let
himself sink. Down he went, weighted by his heavy boots.

Those moments were full of the terror of which, later, he could not
rid himself. There seemed to be no end to the depth of the water in
that place. But when his feet touched bottom, he was still deliberate
in all that he did.

For a moment he let them rest on the rock. Then he gave himself a
strong upward push. It needed but little to bring him within reach of
Billy Topsail's hand. He shot out of the water and caught that hand.
Soon afterwards he was safe on the wharf.[1]

"Sure, mum, I thought I were drownded that time!" he said to his
mother, that night. "When I were goin' down the last time I thought
I'd never see you again."

"But you wasn't drownded, b'y," said his mother, softly.

"But I might ha' been," said he.

There was the rub. He was haunted by what might have