“Well done! Bravo!” panted Fitz, and then he rushed to the spot where the men were lowering down, sprang on to the bulwark, caught at the falls, and slipped down into the boat just as it kissed the water.
“You here!” cried a familiar voice.
“Yes,” panted Fitz, “and you too!”
“Why, of course! Pull away, my lads. I’ll stand up and tell you which way to go.”
The falls were already unhooked and the oars over the side, the men pulling with all their might in the direction where the regular splashes made by the motion of the boatswain’s arm could be seen as he scooped away at the water with a powerful side stroke.
“Pull, lads—pull!” roared the skipper’s son, while in his excitement Fitz scrambled over the oars to get right in the bows, where he strained his eyes to try and make out the man who had gone over first, and a terrible catching of the breath assailed him as he realised the distance he had been left behind by the swiftly-gliding schooner.
Even the boatswain was far away, swimming hard and giving out a heavy puff like some grampus just rising to breathe.
“This way, boys!” he shouted. “Come along! Cheer up, my hearty! I am coming fast.”
He ceased speaking now, as the boat followed in his track, and Fitz as he knelt in the bows reached behind him to begin fumbling for the boat-hook, finding it and thrusting it out like a little bowsprit, ready to make a snatch when the time should come. But his effort seemed as if it would be vain, for after what seemed in the excitement to be a terribly long row, the boat was brought abreast of the swimming boatswain.
“Can’t you see him, Butters?” shouted Poole, who had now joined Fitz.