“Step right in, then.”
“Man, you’re mad!” sharply interposed stroke. The two whispered together for a few minutes, then bow suavely spoke:
“My friend would be glad of your help, but he rather doubts your discretion. We are engaged in no nefarious designs, but at the same time we don’t want to be talked of.”
“I think,” said Frank, with a laugh, “you may trust me, especially as you have already given yourself away. There would be nothing to prevent my calling the attention of a policeman to your condition, you know.”
“Jump in,” said stroke quickly.
Bow crawled aft to take the tiller, and Frank stepped lightly into the boat.
“Take her through the second arch, and then keep over to the Surrey side, when you will shoot us through the end arch of London Bridge, and by the fleet of barges. She lies just beyond.”
“They are evidently making for a ship of some sort,” was Frank’s mental reflection on the reference to “she,” but he was next moment bending to his oar, his eyes fixed on the broad back before him, and his soul bent upon holding his own.
For a moment the boat had swept back with the tide, then as the oars dipped in she stood still to their tug, hung a moment, then crept on with slowly-increasing speed—under Waterloo Bridge, past the railway bridge, then across to the Surrey side, and, with a hard struggle, down under London Bridge and into the Pool, close in the shadow of a number of barges.
“Do you see her?” asked stroke, with a gasp.