Huh--what?"

"I'm coming, too," Amber repeated quietly.

"The hell you are! D'you want to sink us? What do you think this is,
anyway--an excursion steamer? You stay where you are and--I say--take
care of this till I come back, like a good fellow."

He thrust the butt of his shot-gun into Amber's face, and the latter,
seizing it, was rewarded by a vigorous push that sent him back half a
dozen feet. At the same time the painter slipped from his grasp and
Quain, lodging an end of the eel-pot stake on the hard sand bottom, put
his weight upon it. Before Amber could recover, the boat had slid off
and was melting swiftly into the shadows.

After a bit Quain's voice came back: "Don't fret, Davy. I'm all right."

Amber cupped hands to mouth and sent a cheerful hail ringing in
response. Simultaneously the last, least, indefinite blur that stood
for the boat in the darkness, vanished in a swirl of snow; and he was
alone with the storm and his misgivings. Upon these he put a
check--would not dwell upon them; but their influence none the less
proved strong enough to breed in him a resistless restlessness and keep
him tramping up and down a five-yard stretch of comparatively solid
earth: to and fro, stamping his feet to keep his blood circulating,
lugging both guns, one beneath either arm, hunching his shoulders up
about his ears in thankless attempt to prevent wet flakes from sifting
in between his neck and collar--thus, interminably it seemed, to and
fro, to and fro....