“Only the oars, lad. Water brimes.”
Thud! came the report of a heavy gun.
“You’re right, lad! ’Twas the flash from a gun. Some one’s pursuing of something. Pull away, my lads, let’s get aboard, and the skipper may join in. Bah! What’s the good o’ shore-going? Man’s sure to get wrong there.”
The men forgot their weariness in the excitement, as they realised that some vessel was in chase of a smuggler, but they murmured among themselves at their ill luck at being away from the cutter; for if they had been aboard at the first shot, the anchor would have been weighed or slipped, and the White Hawk gone to see what was going on, probably to help capture a heavily laden smuggler craft.
“And we should have took our share, lads,” said Dick in a whisper. “Hey, boot we are out o’ luck.”
“Don’t sit muttering and grumbling there, my lad, but pull hard, and let’s get aboard,” cried the master, and the oars dipped away in the dark sea, seeming to splash up so much pale lambent fire at every stroke.
But this was no novelty to the men, and the boats sped on, one in the other’s wake, with the crew straining their heads over their left shoulders to catch a glimpse of the next flash which preceded the gun.
“Good six mile away from where we are now,” said Gurr. “Oh, my lad, my lad, I wish we were aboard.”
But it was a long pull from the cove to where the cutter lay, nearly a mile and a half from the shore, and, though the master and Archy kept straining their eyes to catch sight of their little vessel, she was invisible.
As they rowed on, they kept on increasing their distance from the shore, steering so as to pass along one side of a right-angled triangle, instead of along by the cliff and then straight off; but, as the cutter showed no lights, this was all guess-work, and made the task rather anxious.