“Don’t begin prophesying evil like that, captain,” cried the doctor sharply. “Here, man, I can pull; let’s take an oar apiece and help.”
“I wasn’t croaking,” growled the captain; “but whether or no, that’s good advice. No, no, youngster, you’re not strong enough to pull.”
“I can row,” I said quickly; and the captain making no farther objection, we three pulled for the next half-hour, giving the men a good rest, when they took their turn, and we could see that while the haze seemed nearer the schooner was quite as far-off as ever. There was a curious coppery look, too, about the sun that made everything now look weird and unnatural, even to the doctor’s face, which in addition looked serious to a degree I had never seen before.
“There’ll be somebody pitched overboard—once I get back on deck, and no boat ready to pick him up. Here, what does he mean?”
He stood up in the boat waving his hat to those on board the little vessel; but no heed was paid, and the captain ground his teeth with rage.
“I’ll let him have something for this,” growled the captain. “There, pull away, men. What are you stopping for?”
The men tugged at their oars once more, after glancing uneasily at each other and then at the sky.
“If I don’t give him—”
“Let’s get on board first, captain,” said the doctor, firmly.
“Ay, so we will,” he growled. “The brown-skinned scoundrel!”