"Aren't you going to help us?
We'll pay you for it." I pulled the skiff a little closer and, drawing in my oars, turned and picked up the slack of my anchor rope.
"Here," I said, brusquely; "catch this line and I'll tow you." I tossed him the loop of rope and he caught it.
"What shall I do with it ?" he asked.
"Hold it, just as it is, for the present.

What became of your other oar ?" "Lost it overboard." "Why didn't you throw over your anchor and wait where you were ?" I think he had not thought of the anchor, but he did not deign to explain.

Instead he began pulling on the rope and the two boats drew together.
"Don't do that," I said.

"Wait." I untied the rope, where it was made fast to the skiff's bow, and with it and the anchor in my hands, scrambled aft and wedged the anchor under the stern thwart of the little craft.
"Now," I said, "you can pull in the slack until you get to the end.

Then make it fast to your bow somewhere." I suppose he did his best to follow instructions, but the rope was a short one, the end jerked loose suddenly and he went backward in a heap.
I thought, for an instant, that he was going overboard and that mine would be the mixed pleasure of fishing him out.
Miss Colton gave a little scream, which changed to a ripple of laughter.
I might have laughed, too, under different circumstances, but just now I did not feel like it.