and a tin baler,
all trimly bestowed under the stern-sheets--and that was her
inventory, save a pig of iron ballast, much rusted. How long she had
rested there, clean and tidied, half protected from the sun's rays,
there was no guessing. But her seams gaped so that I could push my
little finger some way between her strakes. She had no anchor; and
her painter had been cut short at the ring, sharply. Only the knot
remained.

"I was examining this when Farrell overtook me. He came over the
rocks, limping; halted; and let out a cry at sight of the boat.
Then, as by chance, he peered into the cleft at his feet, into the
fathom-deep water past which I had run; and, with that, let out a
sharper cry, commanding me to him.

"Down in the transparent water, inert but seeming to move as the
ripple ran over it, lay the body of a man, face down, with a trail of
weed awash over its shoulders. 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 . . . 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! thin