was swaying and flickering away to the left, and now we were checking
and circling. I stumbled against something sharp--the dinghy's
gunwale. So we had completed the circuit of our fugitive domain, that
dream-island--nightmare island as I always remember it.

'You must scull, too,' said Davies. 'It's blowing hard now. Keep her
nose _up_ a little--all you know!'

We lurched along, my scull sometimes buried to the thwart, sometimes
striking at the bubbles of a wave top. Davies, in the bows, said
'Pull!' or 'Steady!' at intervals. I heard the scud smacking against
his oilskin back. Then a wan, yellow light glanced over the waves.
'Easy! Let her come!' and the bowsprit of the Dulcibella, swollen to
spectral proportions, was stabbing the darkness above me. 'Back a
bit! Two good strokes. Ship your scull! Now jump!' I clawed at the
tossing hull and landed in a heap. Davies followed with the painter,
and the dinghy swept astern.

'She's riding beautifully now,' said he, when he had secured the
painter. 'There'll be no rolling on the flood, and it's nearly low
water.'

I don't think I should have cared, however much she had rolled. I was
finally cured of funk.

It was well that I was, for to be pitched out of your bunk on to wet
oil-cloth is a disheartening beginning to a day. This happened about
eight o'clock. The yacht was pitching violently, and I crawled on all
fours into the cabin, where Davies was setting out breakfast on the
floor.