"It's no use to beach her and go ashore until we find the boat," said the first voice, gravely; "and we'll do that if the current has brought her here. Are you sure you've got the right bearings?"
"As near as a man could off a shore with not a blasted pint to take his bearings by."
There was a long silence again, broken only by the occasional dip of oars, keeping the invisible boat-head to the sea.
"Take my word for it, lads, it's the last we'll see of that boat again, or of Jack Cranch, or the captain's baby."
"It does look mighty queer that the painter should slip. Jack Cranch ain't the man to tie a granny knot."
"Silence!" said the invisible leader. "Listen."
A hail, so faint and uncertain that it might have been the long-deferred, far-off echo of their own, came from the sea, abreast of them.
"It's the captain. He hasn't found anything, or he couldn't be so far north. Hark!"
The hail was repeated again faintly, dreamily. To the seamen's trained ears it seemed to have an intelligent significance, for the first voice gravely responded, "Aye, aye?" and then said softly, "Oars."
The word was followed by a splash. The oars clicked sharply and simultaneously in the rowlocks, then more faintly, then still fainter, and then passed out into the darkness.