“Hold hard, lads, and come and help,” he yelled.
The help came; and, with the dogs barking furiously and getting in every one’s way, Nic and Pete, tightly embraced, were dragged over into the bottom of the boat, the blacks, as soon as this was done, standing shivering, and with a peculiar grey look about the lips.
At that moment there was a distant hail from the landing-stage, and the big smith pulled himself together and hailed in reply.
“Ah, look!” he cried; “you white fellow lose one oar. Quick, sharp! come and pull. Massa Saunders make trebble bobbery if we lose dat.”
The oars were seized, and with two of the prisoners helping to row, the oar was recovered from where it was floating away with the tide, the others trying what they could do to restore the couple, who lay apparently lifeless; while the dog which had behaved so strangely earlier in the day stood snuffing about Nic, ending by planting his great paws upon the poor fellow’s chest, licking his face two or three times, and then throwing up his muzzle to utter a deep-toned, dismal howl, in which the others joined.
“Say, um bofe dead,” groaned the big smith. “Pull, boy; all pull you bess, and get back to the massa. Oh, lorimee! lorimee! what massa will say along wi’ dat whip, all acause we drown two good men, and couldn’t help it a bit. Oh, pull, pull, pull! Shub de boat along. What will massa say?”