nd stepped into the boat

"Sylvia Courtney," she said, "told me last term that her favorite poem
in English literature, is 'Gray's Elegy' on account of it's being so
full of calm. Sometimes I think that Sylvia Courtney is rather a beast."

"She must be a rotter," said Frank, "if she said that."

"All the same, there's no use our fretting ourselves into a fuss. We
can't get out of this unless we had the wings of a dove, so we may as
well take the sails off the boat."

She climbed across Frank, loosed the halyard and brought the lug down
into the boat with a sudden run. Frank was buried in the folds of it
After some struggling he got his head out and breathed freely.

"I say, Priscilla," he said, "why didn't you tell me you were going to
do that?"

Priscilla was gathering the foresail in her arms.

"I thought you knew," she said.

"I didn't know the beastly thing was going to come down on my head."

"That fellow on the island," said Priscilla, "is getting down his tents
and seems to be in a mighty hurry. He's got a woman helping him. Do
you think she could be a female spy? There are such things. They carry
secret ciphers sewn into their stays and other things of that kind."

"I don't believe they're spies at all," said Frank, who was feeling
dishevelled and uncomfortable after his struggle with the sail.

"Anyhow they seem pretty keen on getting away from Inishark. Just look
at them."

There was no doubt that the people on the island were doing their
best to strike their camp as quickly as possible. In their hurry they
stumbled over guy ropes, got the fly sheet of one of their tents badly
tangled round a packing case, and made the matter worse by trying to
free it without proper consideration.

"Let them fuss," said Priscilla. "We can't help it if they do get away.
If your ankle isn't too bad we might as well have lunch. You grub out
the food when I get off my shoes and stockings, I'm a bit damp about the
legs."

Frank felt under the thwart through which the mast was stepped and drew
out one by one the parcel of macaroons, the tongue, the tin of peaches
and the bottles. Priscilla wrung out her stockings over the stern of the
boat and then hung them on the gunwale to dry. She propped her shoes up
against the stern where they would get as much breeze as possible.

"I wish," said Frank, "that we'd thought of getting some bread."

"Why? Don't you like macaroons?"

"I like them all right, but they don't go