“Are we to go off to the yacht in a small boat?” asked Jack nervously.
“Yes, my boy,” said Sir John. “You heard that the captain, said one would be waiting for us at ten, and it is now nearly that time. Look, there’s a man-o’-war gig coming towards the pier. How well the men look in their white duck shirts and straw hats, and with the naval officer in the stern sheets. Those men row splendidly.”
They stopped to look at the beautiful little boat glistening and brown in its varnish, with its three little fenders hanging on either side to protect it from chafing against boat-side or pier, and its rowlocks of highly polished gun-metal, and then lost sight of it behind the pier.
“Bringing the officer to land, I suppose,” said Sir John. “I dare say she comes from the Britannia.”
“No,” said the doctor suddenly. “Why that’s our captain and our boat.”
“Oh no,” said Sir John quickly. “That was a regular man-o’-war craft.”
“I don’t care; it was ours,” said the doctor. “You’ll see.”
He proved to be right, for as they went on to the pier, they saw Captain Bradleigh climb up from a boat lying out of sight close in, and he came to meet them.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “You are punctuality itself. It’s striking ten. This way. We’ll go off at once, while the tide is with us, and save the lads’ arms.”
He led them to the end of the pier, where the so-called man-o’-war boat lay just beneath them, one of the sailors holding on by a boat-hook, while the other three smart-looking fellows sat quietly waiting on the thwarts. The gig was in the trimmest of conditions, and looked perfectly new, while it was set off by a gay scarlet cushion in the stern sheets, contrasting well with the brown varnished grating ready for the sitters’ feet.