Half an hour after, a dirty-looking sailor lad slipped down into the boat, with his worsted cap pulled well down over his eyes, and an uncomfortable feeling about his chest, as he sat back in the stern-sheets by Gurr the master.
“Lay your backs well into it, my lads,” said the lieutenant, “and try and land him without being seen.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” came from the men, the boat began to surge through the still water, and the boy tried to shift the lion’s head which formed the top of his dirk handle.
This he had placed inside the breast of his woollen shirt, ready for use if wanted, but it promised to hurt him more than any enemy, and he wished he had left it on board.
“No talking, lads,” said the master, “and don’t splash.”
The oars had been muffled, and they glided along through the faint mist, in a ghostly way, well in the shadow of the cliffs, Gurr keeping up a whispered conversation with the lad by his side.
“It’s no use to ask you ’bout where you are going first, sir,” whispered the master, “because I suppose it will all be chance. But you’ll go up to the farm, eh?”
“Yes, I shall go there.”
“And up to that big house?”
Archy was silent.