II
"Who's there?" peering suspiciously.
"Boy Hoad, powder-monkey o the Dreadnought."
"Is that the Dreadnought?" sharply.
"Dreadnought, forty-four. Oi'm drownin, sir. Take us in."
His hand was on the boat's gunwale.
"What the deuce you doing here?"
"Desartin, sir. They was for floggin me at sun-up."
"What for?"
"For—for fun."
"For what?"
"For funk, sir," panted the boy, recovering. "Oi don't care for being shotted. So when the guns begins to bang, Oi goos to bed."
The Gentleman threw back his head and ran off into laughter.
"You're the right sort, Mr. Toad. Come on board by all means. But for you and your likes the world'd be a dull place."
Kit clambered in.
"What's that bag?" asked the Gentleman, swift as a sword.
"Duds," replied the boy as swift.
The Gentleman, sitting still as death, stared. It was an appalling moment. The boy could not face those eyes. He looked behind him. As he did so, the mist above drifted away, and the Union Jack at the foretop of the privateer floated out.
"There's her colours!" he panted.
"By Jove, you're right," cried the Gentleman, and began to row the boat clumsily about. "Stop that hole in the bottom with your foot, will you?"
The boat was water-logged and filling fast. The water was already over the Gentleman's spurs.
Down on his knees the boy baled for his life.
Behind him he heard a word of command: then the splash of oars, and the regular thump of rowlocks. The privateer's boat was away—a ten- oared galley from the sound of her, and they were driving her.
"Row, sir, row!" urged the boy. "They're after us!"
The Gentleman flung back into his oars.
Kit could not but admire him. He was rowing, as he believed, against death. The boat was sodden; he could not row; and the pursuers were coming up hand over hand. Yet his eyes danced, as he gasped,
"This is life."
The boy was looking behind him. He could not see the pursuing boat, but he could hear the sizzle of foam under her keel as she slipped through the water, and the rhythmical sweep of oars.
There was a terrible beauty about it—this swooping of Death on them out of the fog. He could hear the wings he could not see. She was close now, the Angel of the Swarthy Pinions.
On the thwart lay a pistol. He snatched it.
"Good boy!" panted the Gentleman.
Kit glanced forward.
He could see the loom of the land.
"There's the shore, sir!" he cried.
"And here are they!" gasped the other. "Pretty thing, by Jove!"
A boat's bows shot up behind them. A figure was standing in the stern.
"Les voila!" screamed a voice.
The Gentleman threw up his oars.
"French!"
Kit clapped the pistol to his head.
"Row!" he screamed. "Row!"
The other tumbled back into his oars. Up sprang his foot. The pistol was kicked out of the boy's hand, and the Gentleman was on him.
"O, you are a villain, Little Chap!" chuckled a voice in the lad's ear.
For a moment they hugged, the boat rocking beneath them.
"Can you swim?" came the voice at his ear.
"Yes," gurgled the lad, and as he felt the boat going sucked in a breath.
"Then shift for yourself. I can't."
As the waters closed about them the arms of the Gentleman loosed their hold.