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It was a longer coil of rope than he had imagined. The boat was twenty yards away at least, and still paying out. By the way, where was the rope? With a cry of horror Tubbs sprang to the anchor and began hauling in. The rope came in gaily, but not the “Eliza.” She danced merrily cut to sea in a straight line for the North Pole, with the six brown- paper parcels on board, leaving her poor custodian to console himself as best he could with a loose end of rope, which had never been fastened to its ring.

What was he to do? After taking a few minutes to collect his ideas, by which time the boat was a hundred yards on its solitary voyage, it occurred to him he had better inform the others of what had happened. So he started in rather a low state of mind in pursuit of them. It was a long time before he came upon them, perched in a group on the highest point of the island, and singing “Rule Britannia” in a lusty chorus which sent the scared seagulls flying to right and left.

“Hullo, Tubby, old man, here we are! Got the grub safe ashore? Not been bagging any of the peaches, eh? You’ve been long enough.”

Tubbs replied by pointing mysteriously to a little speck out at sea.

“What’s the row? What is it?” asked Gayford.

“You wouldn’t guess what that little thing is,” said Tubbs.

“What is it? Can’t you speak?”

“Well, if you must know, it’s our boat. The anchor wasn’t tied, you know!”

“The boat! You great booby!” cried one and all, springing to their feet and rushing in the direction of the pier, upsetting and trampling over the unhappy Tubbs as they did so.

“What on earth shall we do?” gasped Gayford, as he ran by Bowler’s side.

“We must swim for it,” said Bowler. “It’s our only chance.”

“Can’t do it. She’s half a mile out.”

“It’s all up with us if we can’t get her!” groaned Bowler.

They reached the landing-stage, and there, sure enough, danced the “Eliza” half a mile out at sea.

“I’ll try it,” said Bowler, flinging off his coat.

“What, to swim? You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Gayford, seizing his friend by main force.

“I tell you it’s our only chance,” cried Bowler. “Let go, do you hear?”

“No, I won’t, old man. We must make the best of it. It’ll be more like New Swishford than ever now.”

This last argument had more effect with Bowler than any other, and he slowly put on his coat.

“I vote we souse that idiot, Tubbs, till he’s black in the face,” said Crashford viciously.

“What’s the use of that?” asked Bowler. “The fact is, you fellows,” said he, “we’re regularly in for it now, and the sooner we make up our minds what we shall do the better.”

“Let’s make a waft,” said Braintree, mindful of his Wobinson Cwusoe.

“Where’s your wood?” asked Wallas.

“Let’s hoist a signal, anyhow,” said Wester.

“No one to see it if you do,” said Wallas.

“Let’s have some grub,” said Crashford.

This last suggestion met with general approval. They had had no breakfast to speak of, and after their voyage and excitement hunger was beginning to assert itself. The one brown-paper parcel rescued from the “Eliza” was forthwith handed in and pronounced common property. It happened to be the parcel bearing Tubbs’s name, and contained, besides a seventh part of the provisions, Tubbs’s voluntary contributions to the general store–namely, the crib to Sallust, and the guide to the environs of Tunbridge Wells. These, it was proposed and seconded, should be handed over to the owner as his share of the good things contained in the parcel, but Bowler and Gayford interfered on his behalf; and after having been reprimanded with a severity that took away his appetite, he was allowed to partake of a portion of potted shrimp and a potted peach, together with a small slice of cake. Bowler groaned to see what a hole even this frugal repast made in the provisions, and consulted Gayford in an undertone on the possibility of slaying a seagull and the merits of raw poultry generally.