Priscilla's Spies Part 8

"Topping," said Priscilla.

The feel of the cricket ball caught clean in the centre of the bat, sent in one clear flight to square leg across the boundary line, is glorious.

Frank knew the exultation of such moments. The dash across the goal line from a swiftly taken pa.s.s is a thing to live for. Frank, as a fast three-quarter back, knew that too. But this tearing of a heeling boat through bubbling green water became to him, when he got over the first terror of it, a delirious joy.

"That's Inishminna ahead of us to windward," said Priscilla. "Flanagan lives there, who hired him the old boat. He might be there, but he isn't. I can see the whole slope of the island. We'll slip under the lee of the end of it past Illaunglos. It's a likely enough island."

Frank suddenly remembered that they were in pursuit of a German spy. The remainder of his scepticism forsook him. Amid such surroundings, with the singing of the wind and the gurgling swish of the flying boat in his ears, any adventure seemed possible. The prosaic limitations of ordinary life dropped off from him. Only it seemed a pity to find the spy, since finding him would stop their sailing.

"I say, Priscilla," he said. "Don't let us bother about the old spy.

Let's go on sailing."

"Just hunker down a bit," said Priscilla, "and look under the foot of the sail. I can't see to leeward. Is there anything like a tent on that island?"

Frank curled himself into a cramped and difficult att.i.tude. He peered under the sail and made his report.

"There's nothing there," he said, "except three bullocks. But I can only see two sides of the island."

"We'll open the north side in a minute," said Priscilla. "He can't be at the west end of it, for it is all bluff and boulders. If he isn't on the north sh.o.r.e he's not there at all.

Frank twisted himself again into the bottom of the boat, and peeped under the sail. The north sh.o.r.e of Illaunglos held no tent.

"Good," said Priscilla. "Well stand on The next island is Inishark.

He may be there. There's a well on it, and he'd naturally want to camp somewhere within reach of water."

Frank, still curled up beside the centreboard case, gazed under the sail at Inishark. The boat, swaying and dipping in a still freshening breeze, sped on.

"Is there any large white stone on the ridge of the island?" he asked.

"No," said Priscilla. "There isn't a white stone of any size in the whole bay. It's most likely a sheep."

"It's not a sheep. n.o.body ever saw a sheep with a back that went up into a point. I believe it's the top of a tent. Steer for it, Priscilla."

Frank was aglow with excitement. The sailing intoxicated him. The sight of the triangular apex of the tent put himself beside himself.

"Turn the boat, Priscilla. Go down to the island."

Priscilla was cooler.

"We'll hold on a minute," she said, "and make sure. There's no use running all that way down to leeward until we're certain. We'd only have to beat up again."

"It is a tent," said Frank. "I can see now. There are two tents."

Priscilla caught his excitement She knelt on the floor boards, crooked her elbow over the tiller, leaned over the side of the boat and stared under the sail at the island.

"That's him," she said. "Now, Cousin Frank, we'll have to jibe again to get down there. Do you think you can be a bit nippier in getting over the centreboard than you were last time. It's blowing harder, and it won't do to upset. You very nearly had us over before."

Frank was too excited to notice that she now put the whole blame of the sudden violence of the last jibe on him. Thinking over the matter afterwards, he remembered that she had apologised at the time for her own bad steering. Now she wanted to hold his awkwardness responsible for what might have been a disaster.

"All right," he said, "All right I'll do whatever you tell me."

"I won't risk it," said Priscilla. "You'd mean to do all right, but you wouldn't when the time came. That ankle of yours, you know. After all, it's just as easy to run her up into the wind and stay her."

"There's a man at the door of one of the tents looking at us through a pair of gla.s.ses," said Frank.

"Let him," said Priscilla.

She was hauling in the main sheet as the boat swept up into the wind.

"Now, Cousin Frank, ready about. You must slack off the jib sheet and haul down the other. That thin rope at your hand. Yes, that's it."

The meaning of this new manoeuvre was dim and uncertain to Frank. He grasped the rope indicated to him and then heard a noise as if some one at the bottom of the sea, an angry mermaid perhaps, was striking the keel of the boat hard with a hammer.

"She's touching," said Priscilla. "Up centreboard, quick."

Frank gazed at her in pained bewilderment. He had not the least idea of what she wanted him to do. The knocking at the boat's bottom became more frequent and violent. Priscilla gave the main sheet a turn round a cleat and stretched forward, holding the tiller with her left hand. She grasped a rope, one out of a tangled web of wet ropes, and tugged. The knocking ceased. The boat swept up into the wind. There was a sudden arrest of movement, a violent list over, a dart forward, a soft crunching sound, and then a dead stop.

"Bother," said Priscilla, "we're aground."

She sprang overboard at once, stood knee deep in the water, and tugged at the stern of the boat The centreboard, when she dropped its rope, fell to the bottom of its case, caught in the mud under the boat, and anch.o.r.ed her immovably. Priscilla tugged in vain.

"It's no good," she said at last, "and the tide's ebbing. We're here for hours and hours. I hope you didn't hurt your ankle, Cousin Frank, during that fray."

CHAPTER VII

"That fellow is still looking at us through his gla.s.ses," said Frank.

"Can't help it," said Priscilla, "If it amuses him he can go on looking at us for the next four hours."

She gathered her dripping skirt round her and 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."