“Good-night!”
“Good-night,” answered the gruff voice faintly, and Crookenden turned his steps towards home.
“That’s all serene,” said the owner of the gruff voice, whose modulations had suddenly assumed their accustomed timbre—the rather rasping articulation of the goldsmith.
“Couldn’t have fallen out better if I’d arranged it myself. Lay to! belay! you lazy lubbers, forrard—or whatever is the correct nautical expression to make her jump. Put your backs into it, and there’ll be five pounds apiece for you in the morning.”
“Alla right, boss; we ze boys to pulla. Rocka Codda, you asleep zere?—you maka Macaroni do alla ze work.”
“Pull yerself, you lazy Dago. Anyone w’d think you was rowing the bloomin’ boat by yourself. Why, man, I’m pulling you round every dozen strokes. The skipper, aft there, is steerin’ all he knows agin me.”
The truth was that Benjamin’s manipulation of the tiller was extraordinary and erratic, and it was not until the boat was well past the wharves that he mastered its mysteries.
The tide was ebbing, and when the boat was in the stream her speed doubled, and there was no need for using the oars. Swiftly and silently she drifted past the lights on the quay and the ghostly houses which stood beside the water.
The Pilot’s system of beacons was so perfect that with their aid a tyro such as Tresco found no difficulty in steering his course out of the harbour.
Outside in the bay, the lights of two vessels could be seen: those of the plague-ship and of the steamer which, unable to get into the port in the teeth of the tide, was waiting for the mails.