“No, I’m not going to talk,” said Don; “I want all my breath for swimming.”
“Don’t feel tired, do you?”
“Not a bit.”
“That’s right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren’t much good. Don’t you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can’t see us.”
“But it seems as if they could,” whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.
“Yes, seems,” whispered Jem; “but there’s only our heads out of water, and only the tops o’ them sometimes. Say, that must ha’ been fancy about the canoe.”
“No, Jem; she’s somewhere about.”
“Glad on it: but I wish she’d come and pick us up.”
They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.
All at once a curious noise assailed Don’s ear.