"Did you take one, Miles?" cried Giles Hopkins, splashing to the spot.
"I d-d-don't know," chattered Miles, from the shore where he had sought refuge.
Giles spattered to and fro a moment. "'Twas naught but an old branch," he announced contemptuously.
"It was an eel," retorted Miles, "but, to be sure, he will not stand there the day long till you choose to come seek him."
With that he forced himself to put his purpling feet into the water again, but, spite of this brave showing, Ned and Giles would chaff him on his flight, and even Squanto looked amused at the conduct of the youngest of his allies.
Yet, for all they were so ready to laugh at him, Miles noted his English comrades did not take a single eel, and that gave him a kind of comfort. But even then there was little pleasure in wading through the icy water, in the expectation of stepping on a soft, squirming thing; so he was not sorry when Ned gave the order to take up the homeward march.
The east wind, that had turned chillier as sunset drew on, smote bleakly on the hilltops, and in the hollows, where the shadows were creeping through the undergrowth, the warmth had died out of the air. The gathering darkness pressed ever closer upon the fishermen; the sea on their right turned gray and dim; the blue faded from the sky, and the green of the distant headlands of the bay changed to black. Just off the beach point they could dimly make out a dark bulk, where a single speck of light showed—the old ship Mayflower.
"They say she'll be hoisting sail for home soon," Giles spoke, as they trudged through the twilight, with a surety that his comrades knew to what he referred.
"So soon as the wind swings round into the west," answered Ned. "Then she'll up sail, and it's 'Eastward, ho!'"