“Now, then,” shouted old Jonas, “look where you’re going. Pull, doctor! Easy, captain! That’s better.”
Between his words he kept sending out pannikins of water rapidly to ease the boat, for it was above our ankles as we sat and pulled.
“Nice fellows all of you!” grumbled old Jonas. “Why, you all look blue. Fool’s trick! Who put it up?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, Mr Uggleston,” I said.
“Who proposed to swim off to the lugger? Was it Bigley?”
“N–no, Mr Uggleston,” I panted, half hysterically, as I tugged at the oar, an example followed by Bob Chowne, who was very silent and very blue.
“Soon as I get you aboard, I’ll give you all a good rope’s-ending, and chance what your fathers say,” grumbled old Uggleston, as he sent the water flashing over the side. “I suppose it was my Bigley as set you at it, wasn’t it?”
“No, sir,” I said, as I rapidly grew more composed now. “We were on the rock yonder, and had to swim for it. We wanted to get to shore.”
“And the current took you out, eh? Of course it would. Then you weren’t swimming for the lugger, eh?”
“Oh, no, sir,” I cried; “we had forgotten all about the boat.”