And why the dinghy, though it was a dinghy of large size?  Why not the launch?

After the dinghy had been dropped into the sea an old sail was carefully spread amidships over her bottom and she was lugged, by her painter, towards the bow of the yacht where, with much grating of windlasses and of temperaments and voices, an anchor was very gently lowered into her and rested on the old sail.  The anchor was so immense that it sank the dinghy up to Her gunwale, and then she was rowed away to a considerable distance, a chain grinding after her, and in due time the anchor was pitched with a great splash into the water.  The sound of orders and of replies vibrated romantically over the surface of the water.  Then a windlass was connected with the engine, and the passengers comprehended that the intention was to drag the yacht off the sand by main force.  The chain clacked and strained horribly.  The shouting multiplied, as though the vessel had been a great beast that could be bullied into obedience.  The muscles of all passengers were drawn taut in sympathy with the chain, and at length there was a lurch and the chain gradually slackened.

“She’s off!” breathed the captain.  “We’ve saved a good half-hour.”

“She’d have floated off by herself,” said Mr. Gilman grandly.

“Yes, sir,” said the captain.  “But if it had happened to be the ebb, sir—­” He left it at that and began on a new series of orders, embracing the dinghy, the engines, the anchor and another anchor.

And all the passengers resumed their courage and their ancient notions about the excellence of luxury, and came to the conclusion that navigation was a very simple affair, and in less than five minutes were sincerely convinced that they had never known fear.

Later, the impressive sight was witnessed of Madame Piriac, on her shoulders such a cloak as certainly had never been seen on a yacht before, bearing Mr. Gilman’s valuable violin like a jewel casket.  She had found it below and brought it up on deck.

The Ariadne, was now passing to port those twinkling cities of delight, Clacton and Frinton, and the long pier of Walton stretched out towards it, a string of topazes.  The moon was higher and brighter than ever, but clouds had heaped themselves up to windward, and the surface of the water was rippled.  Moreover, the yacht was now working over a strong, foul tide.  The company, with the exception of Mr. Gilman, who had gone below—­apparently in order to avoid being on the same deck with Captain Wyatt—­had decided that Musa should be asked to play.  Although the sound of his practising had escaped occasionally through the porthole of a locked cabin, he had not once during the cruise performed for the public benefit.  Dancing was finished.  Why should not the yacht profit by the presence of a great genius on board?  The doctor and the secretary were of one mind with the women that there was no good answer to this question, and even the crew obviously felt that the genius ought to show what he was made of.