We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea. Arthur Ransome

eggs for the skipper?” she shouted.

      “TWO!” shouted Jim.

      “SOFT OR HARD?”

      “HARDISH.”

      Looking down, they could see her putting the eggs, one by one, into the saucepan of bubbling water. She was just putting the saucepan back on the stove when they looked suddenly at each other. The noise of the engine was changing. That quick, whirring, chug, chug, chug slackened, faded out, stopped, went on once more, and finally, after a few half-hearted chugs, died altogether. For a moment there was silence. It was broken by Roger.

      “Oh I say, Susan, you’ve gone and stopped the engine.”

      “I haven’t touched it,” said Susan from below.

      Jim jumped down and gave a few turns to the starting handle. The engine coughed, chugged twice, and stopped once more. He climbed out into the cockpit, swept Titty off the starboard seat, lifted a little lid, like the lid over the pump, unscrewed a cap beneath it, and peered down into the petrol tank.

      “Bone dry,” he said. “What an idiot. I must have used more than I thought the night before last. I ought to have filled up before starting. Hi, Roger, look out. . . ” He glanced round at the Felixstowe pierheads and then the other way. The Goblin was still moving. He swung her round slowly and let Roger have the tiller again.

      “Keep her heading like that, on Harwich Church spire. She’ll carry her way till she’s out of the channel. We’ll anchor the shelf . . . ”

      Susan had come up from below. All four of them stood in the cockpit, while the Goblin, steered by Roger, slipped silently, more and more slowly, past a large flat-topped buoy which they could read “NORTH SHELF.” Jim had run forward, and they could hear chain being hauled up on deck.

      “She’s hardly moving,” called John.

      There was a great splash and then a rattle of chain as the anchor went down. Jim made fast and came aft.

      “What are we going to do?” asked Roger.

      “Wait for wind,” said John.

      “Get some petrol,” said Jim. “There’s a garage between here and Felixstowe, and if I can catch that bus it won’t take ten minutes.” He was rummaging under the cockpit seat and presently pulled out an empty petrol tin. “Couldn’t have run out of petrol at a better place,” he was saying. “I never use Billy if I can help it, but I hate to feel he isn’t on duty and ready if he’s wanted. Next time I miss my moorings, there may not be a boatload of sailors to take a rope for me. I’ll just a couple of gallons and then we’ll be all right. Blooming donkey I was, not to have looked in the tank yesterday.”