But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,—
“Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Fugitives.
Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears.
Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad’s head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.
“Now for it, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem; “think as it’s a race, and we’re going to win a cup at a ’gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together.”
“They’re calling to us to stop, Jem,” whispered Don.