“Ahoy!” came from the men, in answer to his hail.
“All right aboard?” shouted the mate.
“Yes. All right!” roared the boatswain. “What are they doing out yonder to the Spaniel?”
“Trying to get her off, I suppose. She went ashore in the night. I came up here with a glass to look out for you, and there she was, and hasn’t moved since. What about that gun?”
“Burnett has drawn its tooth,” shouted Poole. “Father all right?”
“No. Got the grumps about you. Thinks you are lost. You didn’t foul the screw, did you?”
“Yes,” shouted Poole.
“Then that’s what they’re about; trying to clear her again; and when they do they’ve got to get their vessel off the rocks. I’m going to stop and see; but you had better row up stream as hard as you can, so as to let the skipper see that you have not all gone to the bottom. He told me he was sure you had.”
The men’s oars dipped again, and they rowed with all their might, passing the dinghy with the man in charge moored at the foot of the cliff, while soon after they had turned one of the bends and came in sight of the schooner a loud hail welcomed them from those who were on board. Then Poole stood up in the stern, after handing the rudder-lines to his companion, and began waving his hat to the skipper, who made a slight recognition and then stood watching them till they came within hail.
“Well,” he said, through his speaking-trumpet, “what luck?”