“Oh!” moaned poor Bob; but he obeyed, and it seemed a puzzle to me that our big companion, whom we bantered and teased, and led a sorry life at school, should somehow in this time of peril take the lead over us, and force us to behave in a way that could only have been expected of a crew obeying the captain of a boat.
I bent forward to Bigley as we kept on with the regular chop chop of the oars, making no effort to get nearer to the shore, only to keep the boat’s head level, and I whispered in his ear:
“Shall we get to shore again!”
“Yes,” he said confidently; “only you two must do what I tell you. I must be skipper now. Go on, you, Bob Chowne!” he roared. “Heave out that water. Do you want me to kick you again?”
Bob whimpered, but he worked faster, scooping the water clumsily out and throwing it over, the side, and, after he had done, and been sitting crouched at the bottom, Bigley seemed to attack him again unkindly, as if he were going to take advantage of his helplessness, and serve him out for many an old piece of tyranny.
“Now, then,” he shouted—and it seemed to be his father speaking, not our quiet easy-going school-fellow, but the rough seafaring man who had the credit of being a smuggler—“Now then, you, Bob Chowne,” he roared, “get up, and come and take Sep Duncan’s oar.”
“I can’t,” he groaned piteously, and he let himself fall against the side of the boat. “I’m so cold, I’m half dead.”
“Oh, are you?” shouted Bigley. “No you ar’n’t, so get up and creep over here.”
“I can’t,” cried Bob again.
“Then I’ll make you,” cried Bigley fiercely, and lifting his oar out of the rowlocks he sent it along the gunwale, till he made it tap heavily against the back of Bob Chowne’s head.