“Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?”
“Shore, of course,” said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. “Say, Mas’ Don, they won’t hang us, will they, if they ketches us?”
“What made you say that?”
“Because here comes a boat after us.—Hear the skipper?”
“Yes; but the canoe—where is the canoe?”
Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.
“I dunno, my lad. Can’t see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha’n’t be able to see no canoe to-night.”
They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.
But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.
“Better not talk, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as they swam; “sound goes so easily over the water.”