A minute later those scattered irregular splashes became almost as one, and though they were given slowly, the effect was steady and the steersman proved to be doing his part so carefully and well that the flashes from behind became more distant and sounded fainter, and the last seemed to come from round a bend of the river.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Lost.
“Now, my lads,” said Murray, at last; “speak out; let me know the worst. Who is hurt?”
There was no reply, the men tugging slowly and regularly at the oars.
“Well, speak out,” cried the middy. “Don’t be too modest to let me know. You, Tom May, what about your eyes?”
“Don’t want ’em now, sir,” said the man, in his deep, low growl. “Won’t be daylight yet awhile.”
“I know that,” said Murray testily; “but you said that you were getting them scratched out.”