Chapter Twenty Three.
Boating.
“Well, Mr Poole, sir, we seem to have got ourselves into a pretty jolly sort of mess. I feel quite damp. You are skipper, sir; what’s to be done?”
“Shout again,” cried Poole; “all together,”—and another lusty yell was given.
“There, ’tarn’t no use, sir,” said the boatswain, “if so be as I may speak.”
“Speak? Of course! I am only too glad of your advice. What were you going to say?”
“Only this ’ere, sir—that it aren’t no use to shout. I am wet and cold, and hollering like this is giving me a sore throat, and the rest of the lads too. There’s Dick Boulter is as husky as my old uncle Tom’s Cochin fowl. Here, I want to know why the skipper don’t show a blue light.”
“He dare not,” said Poole hastily. “It would be showing the gunboat where the schooner is.”