“There’s your answer,” growled Tom May fiercely. “You ’bey orders and stick to your oar. That was precious nigh, though.”
Murray heard every word, and it was to him as if he could see everything that the big sailor did, as with one arm over the cutter’s bows he forced it a little more and a little more away, fighting against the pressure of the water and meaning to get the boat at right angles to the dam and her stem pointing straight up stream before he gave the order to pull.
But it was slow work, for the pressure of the water was so great and the man’s foothold on the bottom so insecure that at last, and just as he was about to call upon the middy and the man who handled the third oar to try and pull, there was a slip and a splash, May’s feet glided over the bottom, and he was swept back, fortunately still clinging to the bows, back to where he had started from—close against the trunk.
“Are you there, Tom?” whispered Murray excitedly, for he feared the worst.
“Here I be sir,” growled the man. “I’m sticking tight enough.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the lad. “If it were only light!”
“Jolly for us it ain’t, sir,” said the man. “Bad if they could see. Hear that?”
That was another shot from the right bank of the river, followed by a couple more, and the bullets splashed up the water not far from their heads.
“Are you going to try again?” whispered Murray.
“Arn’t I, sir! I’m a-going to try till to-morrow mornin’ if I don’t do it afore. Now then, all on yer, I’m going to begin shoving off her bows again, and this time don’t wait, my lads, for any orders from me. Use your own gumption, and all on it at once. It’ll take all my wind to keep me going. You, Mr Murray, you get hold of the water first charnsh and pull, and you t’others back-water; on’y just remember this: a broken oar means done for.—Now here goes.”