CHAPTER III
THE GIRL FROM DROGHEDA
Gordon Elliot was too much of a night owl to be an early riser, but
next morning he was awakened by the tramp of hurried feet along the
deck to the accompaniment of brusque orders, together with frequent
angry puffing and snorting of the boat. From the quiver of the walls he
guessed that the Hannah was stuck on a sandbar. The mate's language gave
backing to this surmise. Divided in mind between his obligation to the
sleeping passengers and his duty to get the boat on her way, that
officer spilled a good deal of subdued sulphurous language upon the
situation.
"All together now. Get your back into it. Why are you running around
like a chicken without a head, Reeves?" he snapped.
Evidently the deck hands were working to get the Hannah off by poling.
Elliot tried to settle back to sleep, but after two or three ineffectual
efforts gave it up. He rose and did one or two setting-up exercises to
limber his joints. The first of these flashed the signal to his brain
that he was stiff and sore. This brought to mind the fight on the
hurricane deck, and he smiled. His face was about as mobile as if it
were in a plaster cast. It hurt every time he twitched a muscle.
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