In Roger’s voice there were clear signs of panic in the forecastle. Captain John took command at once.
“Rubbish, Roger,” he said, “they aren’t octopuses. They’re only flowers.” He leaned over and picked one, not without difficulty. “Here you are,” he said. “Give it to him, Susan. Let him see for himself. They’re only flowers. Only their stalks are horribly tough. Try to pull out into the middle, Mister Mate.”
“All right. Only flowers,” said Roger, fingering the water lily and letting his fingers run down its stout slippery stalk. “But I wouldn’t mind even if they were octopuses.”
Susan did her best. But the blades of the oars caught under the broad, flat leaves of the water lilies and swept them together. The long, fat, smooth stalks of the water lilies tangled together and held the oars like strong ropes. She lost an oar overboard. She picked it up again at once, feeling for it, for it was hard to see Swallow ’s brown oars in the dark water. Swallow moved as if she were being driven against something springy, which gave a little and then gathered strength and pushed her back.
“Bother these flowers,” said Roger.
“Let me row for a bit,” said John.
The captain and the mate changed places. John tried rowing without feathering, keeping the blades of his oars on a slant downwards and forwards so that when he pulled they would not go deep in the water and could not catch under the flat leaves. That was better. Presently Swallow was clear of the lilies.
“I can’t move the tiller,” said Susan. “Only a little way.”
“One of those lily stalks must be stuck between the rudder and the boat,” said Captain John. “Let me get at it.” He took off his coat, rolled up his