“Stop her. Bring that boat forward, please.”
It was Dick’s voice, cool and collected as before.
“Now hold her while we embark. Good-bye, Jack. Good-bye, men. Keep a watch for us to-morrow night. Shove her off.”
A dozen hands stretched out to grip his in the darkness, and a dozen voices, gruff and deep, and sunk to a whisper, bade him good luck and good-bye. A push then sent the boat clear of the launch, and within a few seconds she was under way, the dip of the paddles being just distinguishable. That sound soon ceased, and as the crew of the launch stared disconsolately after their leader, they could neither hear nor see a trace of the boat.
“Good luck to the lad,” growled one of the sailors. “Blest if he ain’t the pluckiest gentleman as ever I see.”
“And if them fellers gets ’im and does for our young orfficer, I tell yer they’ll ’ave ter pay, do yer ’ear?” growled another. “Strike me! but we’ll give ’em something for interferin’!”
“Silence there, for’ard. ’Bout launch! Steady there with the tiller, and hold your tongues, my lads.”
This time it was Jack Emmett’s voice, strangely altered. At once there was silence. But the men could think and mutter to themselves, and as they slowly steamed down the dark river that black night, each and all, from their new commander downward, registered a vow that if Dick Stapleton did not soon return, they would find the cause and probe the mystery to the bottom.