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Updated: May 23, 2025
Indeed, the two found many things to talk about, for Peter well remembered the stories he had heard of Paul's record as an oarsman on the 'Varsity eight traditions of the sort that are handed down from year to year unto succeeding classes. But as they talked, Paul noticed that Peter's eyes often rested with a troubled look upon his sister.
Through the little delays of a hospitality more cordial than kind, they were kept until the early December twilight was deepening into dusk. But the oarsman lighted his lantern, and was confident that he could put them across most speedily. The boat was stanch and well built, and they started with scarcely a misgiving, Miss Martell taking an oar with much zest.
It was buffeted here and there, now covered with a ton of water, now topping a ten-foot wave. Like a skilled boxer quick of eye, and ready to seize any temporary advantage the oarsman shot in his oars for two quick strokes, to straighten the boat with the current or dodge a threatening boulder; then covered by lifting his oars and ducking his head as a brown flood rolled over him.
And Varney heard him say to the oarsman in a snappy, impatient voice: "Pull for all you know, dere! I got bizness dat won't keep." Varney sat down with the bundle of papers. Within the minute, Peter appeared, replete but characteristically alert. "Read it yet?" "No, but I've found it. It wasn't hard."
As the oarsman pulled the tiny craft towards the beach, neither he nor the children saw away behind the boat, on the water near the bending palm tree at the break in the reef, something that for a moment insulted the day, and was gone. Something like a small triangle of dark canvas, that rippled through the water and sank from sight; something that appeared and vanished like an evil thought.
The oarsman secured his five-dollar bill, and Christy hauled up his valise. He felt that he had saved himself from the dishonor of failing to obey his orders, and he looked about him for some one who would be able to explain to him how the steamer happened to be sailing two hours before the time named in his orders.
It looks across the blue waters of the bay to a headland crowned with cocoa-palms, and beyond the headland to the Indian Ocean. The cool trades sweep across that veranda. We idly watched a lone white oarsman pulling strongly against the wind through the tide rips, evidently bent on exercise. We speculated on the incredible folly of wanting exercise; and forgot him.
There was one man in the boat rowing it. Another sat in the stern, with a pole in his hand. The pole had an iron hook in the end of it. A short distance before the boat was a log floating upon the water. The oarsman was rowing the boat towards the log. He brought it up to it in such a manner that the other man could strike his hook into it.
Moreover, Contarini offered a trusty and swift oarsman to take the order to Murano, and the Governor wrote it on the supper table, between two draughts of Greek wine, which he drank from a goblet made by Angelo Beroviero himself in the days when he still worked at the art.
As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!—a boat—a small boat—passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf!
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