“Who could it be?”
“Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?”
“Not it,” said Jem sturdily; “it’s Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas’ Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his.”
“Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let’s get close to the rope first.”
They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked—rather a rare custom in those days.
“It’s the canoe, Jem,” whispered Don; “and it’s coming closer.”
They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat— that of friend or foe—was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain.
“Ready, Jem?”
“Yes, I’m ready, lad. Rope’s just where you stand.”
“What!” cried the captain’s voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.