“Then why didn’t we come in the daytime, and not wait until it was getting so pitch dark as you can’t see your hand afore your eyes?”
Billy Waters scratched his head.
“Well, it is getting dark, old Tommy, sartinly,” he said apologetically.
“Dark as Davy Jones’s locker,” growled Tom. “I wants to find Muster Leigh as much as anybody, but you can’t look if you can’t see.”
“That’s a true word anyhow,” said one of the men.
“It’s my belief as our skipper’s pretty nigh mad,” continued Tom, giving a vicious jerk at his oar, “or else he wouldn’t be sending us ashore at this time o’ night.”
“Well, it is late, Tommy,” said the gunner; “but we must make the best on it.”
“Yah! There ar’n’t no best on it. All we can do is to get ashore, sit down on the sand, and shout out, ‘Muster Leigh, ahoy!’”
“There, it ar’n’t no use to growl again, Tom Tully,” said Billy Waters, reassuming his dignified position of commanding officer. “Give way, my lads.”
The men took long, steady strokes, and soon after the boat glided right in over the calm phosphorescent waves, four men leaped out as her bows touched the sand, and as the next wave lifted her, they ran her right up; the others leaped out and lent a hand, and the next minute the boat was high and dry.