‘I told you so; no schooner for us to-night.’
‘Why do they not continue firing guns?’ I muttered, impatiently. ‘Come, boys, let us give them a cheer.’
The night was calm, and I thought our voices might be heard on board the ship, so standing up, and putting our hands trumpet-fashion to our mouths, we gave a long shrill halloo, and then listened intently. For a moment we heard nothing but the surging of the currents as the tide came washing along the channels of the reef, and the low sound of the surf outside. But then was heard distinctly the answering halloo. We shouted again, and shoved off in the direction of the voice, making very good way, for we had struck a tolerably open channel, along which the tide was setting fast. Presently we heard the hail again much closer.
‘Come, come,’ quoth I, ‘Paul Williamson, you will swing in your hammock to-night, for all that is come and gone.’
‘Boat ahoy!’ said the voice a third time. ‘Sheer to port, and keep along that belt of surf on your starboard beam. Have you caught the dwarf?’
‘No, confound him!’ I shouted; ‘and we thought we should never have got to the schooner again. Why did you not keep firing?’
To this no answer was given, and Edward Lanscriffe asked, in a low tone, which of our comrades it was who had hailed. This was a puzzler. We none of us knew the voice.
‘Will-o’-the-Wisp, ahoy!’ I shouted. ‘Halloo!’ was the reply. ‘Why the devil don’t you come aboard? Have you fallen asleep over your oars?’
‘We can’t see,’ we replied, standing up, and peering into the darkness. ‘Show a light, man—show a light!’
Immediately a lantern gleamed ahead of us. We pulled towards it. It shone from a dark object. I was in the act of telling the men to lay on their oars, when grit, grit, grit! the boat’s keel scrunched upon the sand, and at the same time the lantern was extinguished.