“Not quite, sir,” said Murray, as he altered the boat’s course a trifle, “but it must have been close hereabouts. What are you going to do, sir?”
“Do, my lad? Why, take her and make the master or whatever he is, act as guide.”
“I see, sir. Then you think he must have come out of the river where the schooner has taken refuge?”
“That’s what I think,” said the lieutenant grimly; “and if I am right I fancy the captain will not be quite so hard upon us as he has been of late.”
“It will be a glorious triumph for us—I mean for you, sir,” said Murray hurriedly.
“Quite right, Mr Murray,” said his companion, smiling. “I can well afford to share the honours with you, for I shall have owed it to your sharp eyes. But there, don’t let’s talk. We must act and strain every nerve, for I’m doubtful about that lugger; she sails well and may escape us after all.”
Murray set his teeth as he steered so as to get every foot of speed possible out of the cutter, while, sheet in hand, Tom May sat eagerly watching the steersman, ready to obey the slightest sign as the boat’s crew sat fast with the oars in the rowlocks ready to dip together and pull for all they were worth, should the wind fail.
“That’s good, my lads,” said the lieutenant—“most seamanlike. It’s a pleasure to command such a crew.”
There was a low hissing sound as of men drawing their breath hard, and the old officer went on.
“We’re not losing ground, Mr Murray,” he said.