In Which it Appears to Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg That Sixty Seconds Sometimes Make More Than a Minute

Ruddy Cove is deep––vastly deep––except in one part. That is in Burnt Cove within the harbour. There at low tide it is shallow. Rocks protrude from the water––dripping and covered with a slimy seaweed. And Burnt Cove lies near the tickle to the sea. You pass between the tickle rocks, bear sharply to the right and are presently in the cove. It is a big expanse, snugly sheltered; and it shallows so slowly that there are many acres of quiet water in which the little fellows of Ruddy Cove learn to swim.

Ezekiel Rideout’s cottage was by Burnt Cove; and Bagg wished most heartily that he were there.

But Bagg was at sea. And the punt was a small one. It was not Jimmie Grimm’s fishing 137 punt; it was a shallow little rodney, which Jimmie’s father used for going about in when the ice and seals were off the coast. It was so small and light that it could be carried over the pans of ice from one lane of open water to another. And being small and light it was cranky. It was no rough weather boat; nor was it a boat to move very much about in, as both boys were quite well aware.

Bagg heard Jimmie’s oars rattle in the row-locks and the blades strike the water. The boat moved forward. Jimmie began to row with all his strength––almost angrily. It was plain that he was losing his temper. And not only did he lose his temper; he had grown tired before he regained it.

“Here, Bagg,” said he; “you have a go at it.”

“I’ll ’ave a try,” Bagg agreed.

Jimmie let the oars swing to the side and Bagg made ready to steady the little boat. Bagg heard him rise. The boat rocked a little.

“Steady!” Bagg gasped.

“Steady, yourself!” Jimmie retorted. “Think I don’t know how t’ get around in a rodney?”

It was now so dark, what with night and fog, that Bagg could not see Jimmie. But presently 138 he understood that Jimmie was on his feet waiting for him to rise in his turn. They were to exchange places. Bagg got to his feet, and, with all the caution he could command, advanced a step, stretching out his hands as he did so. But Bagg had not been born on the coast and was not yet master of himself in a boat. He swayed to the left––fairly lurched.

“Have a care!” Jimmie scolded.

Have you never, in deep darkness, suddenly felt a loss of power to keep your equilibrium? You open your eyes to their widest. Nothing is to be seen. You have no longer a sense of perpendicularity. You sway this way and that, groping for something to keep you from falling. And that is just what happened to Bagg. He was at best shaky on his legs in a boat; and now, in darkness and fear, his whole mind was fixed on finding something to grasp with his hands.

“Is you ready?” asked Jimmie.

“Uh-huh!” Bagg gasped.

“Come on,” said Jimmie; “but mind what you’re about.”

Bagg made a step forward. Again the boat rocked; again the darkness confused him, and 139 he had to stop to regain his balance. In the pause it struck him with unpleasant force that he could not swim. He was sure, moreover, that the boat would sink if she filled. He wished he had not thought of that. A third half-crawling advance brought him within reach of Jimmie. He caught Jimmie’s outstretched hand and drew himself forward until they were very close.

“Look out!” he cried.

He had crept too far to the right. The boat listed alarmingly. They caught each other about the middle, and crouched down, waiting, rigid, until she had come to an even keel.

Presently they were ready to pass each other.

“Now,” said Jimmie.

Bagg made the attempt to pass him. The foothold was uncertain; the darkness was confusing. He moved to the side, but so great was his agitation that he miscalculated, and the boat tipped suddenly under his weight. The water swept over the gunwale. Bagg would have fallen bodily from the punt had it not been for Jimmie’s clutch on his arm. In the light they might have steadied themselves; in the dark they could not.

Jimmie drew Bagg back––but too hurriedly, 140 too strongly, too far. The side of the boat over which he had almost fallen leaped high in the air and the opposite gunwale was submerged. Jimmie released him, and Bagg collapsed into a sitting posture in the bottom. Instinctively he grasped the gunwales and frantically tried to right the boat. He felt the water slowly curling over.

“She’s goin’ down,” said Jimmie.

“Sinkin’!” Bagg sobbed.

The boat sank very slowly, gently swaying from side to side. Bagg and Jimmie could see nothing, and all they could hear was the gurgle and hissing of the water as it curled over the gunwales and eddied in the bottom of the boat. Bagg felt the water rise over his legs––creep to his waist––rise to his chest––and still ascend. Through those seconds he was incapable of action. He did not think; he just waited.

Jimmie wondered where the shore was. A yard or a mile away? In which direction would it be best to strike out? How could he help Bagg? He must not leave Bagg to drown. But how could he help him? What was the use of trying, anyhow? If he could not row ashore, how could he manage to swim ashore? And if 141 he could not get ashore himself, how could he help Bagg ashore?

Nothing was said. Neither boy breathed. Both waited. And it seemed to both that the water was slow in coming aboard. But the water came. It came slowly, perhaps––but surely. It rose to Bagg’s shoulders––to his chin––it seemed to be about to cover his mouth and nostrils. Bagg already had a stifled sensation––a frantic fear of smothering; a wish to breathe deep. But he did not stir; he could not rise.

The boys felt a slight shock. The water rose no more. There was a moment of deep silence.

“I––I––I ’low we’ve grounded!” Jimmie Grimm stuttered.

The silence continued.

“We sure is!” Jimmie cried.

“Wh-wh-where ’ave we got to?” Bagg gasped, his teeth chattering with the fright that was not yet passed.

Silence again.

“Ahoy, there!” came a voice from near at hand in the foggy night. “What you boys doin’ out there?”

“We’re in Burnt Cove,” said Jimmie, in 142 amazement, to Bagg. “’Tis Uncle Zeke’s voice––an’, ay, look!––there’s the cottage light on the hill.”

“We’re comin’ ashore, Uncle Zeke,” Bagg shouted.

The boat had grounded in less than three feet of water. Jimmie had brought her through the tickle without knowing it. The boys emptied her and dragged her ashore just as the rain and wind came rushing from the open sea.

That’s why Jimmie used to say with a laugh:

“Sixty seconds sometimes makes more than a minute.”

“Bet yer life!” Bagg would add.