Frank did. Although he would not have expressed himself in the words of the Psalmist, he recognised them. The most reliable tenor in the choir at Haileybury is necessarily familiar with the Psalms. They reached the stone perch and cast anchor. It was half past seven o’clock. Priscilla got out the bread and honey. “The proper thing to do,” she said, “would be to go on half rations at once, and serve out the bread by ounces and the honey by teaspoonfuls, but I think we won’t. I’m as hungry as any wolf.” “Besides,” said Frank, “we haven’t got a teaspoon.” “I hope your knife is to the fore. I’m not particular as a rule about the way I eat things, but there’s no use beginning the day by making the whole boat sticky. I loathe stickiness, especially when I happen to sit on it, which is one of the reasons which makes me glad I wasn’t born a bee. They have to, of course, poor things, even the queen, I believe. It can’t be pleasant.” The tug of the boat at her anchor rope slackened as the tide reached its height. A light easterly wind came to them from the land. Priscilla swallowed the last morsel of bread and honey as the Tortoise drifted over her anchor and swung round. “Perhaps,” she said, “you’d like to practise steering, Cousin Dick. If so, creep aft and take the tiller. I’ll get the sail on her and haul up the anchor.” Frank, humbled by the experience of the day before, was doubtful. Priscilla encouraged him. He took the tiller with nervous joy. Priscilla hoisted the lug and then the foresail. “Now,” she said, “I’ll get up the anchor and we’ll try to go off on the starboard tack. If we don’t we’ll have to jibe immediately. With this much wind it won’t matter, but you might not like the sensation.” Frank did not want to enjoy any sensation of a sudden kind and jibing, as he understood it, was always unexpected. He asked which way he ought to push the tiller so as to make sure of reaching the starboard tack. Priscilla stood beside the mast and delivered a long, very confusing lecture on the effect of the rudder on the boat and the advantage of hauling down one or other of the foresail sheets when getting under way from anchor. Frank did not understand much of what she said, but was ashamed to ask for more information. Priscilla, on her knees under the foresail, tugged at the anchor rope. The Tortoise quivered slightly, but did not move. Priscilla, leaning well back, tugged harder. The Tortoise--it is impossible to speak of a boat except as a live thing with a capricious will--shook herself irritably. “She’s slap over the anchor,” said Priscilla. “I can’t think how she gets there for there’s plenty of rope out; but there she is and I can’t move the beastly thing. Perhaps you’ll try. You may be stronger than I am. I expect it has got stuck somehow behind a rock.”