“Yes; I had barely time to cut away our ensign from the peak. I thought I’d save the Luttrell colours, and so I did.”
“Were you far from land at the time?”
“About fifteen miles; as good as fifty, for the wind was strong off shore, and such a sea!”
“And what did you do?”
“We had plenty of spars. There were oars, and stretchers, and four large planks of the flooring, all floating about, and each of us laid hold of something.”
“By my sowle you’re a brave boy!” cried the old pilot, who could restrain himself no longer.
Luttrell turned a fierce look on the old man, and pointed to the door, and the poor fisherman slunk away overwhelmed with shame.
“So we’ve lost our best boat, and all her tackle,” said Luttrell, moodily; “a heavy loss.”
“It is!” said the boy, gravely; “but the fellows that picked us up say, that they don’t know how we held on so long with an undecked boat. They were watching us for an hour before we went over.”
“Who were they?”