“Say, Mas’ Don, don’t you feel as if you’d like a cup o’ tea?”
“No.”
“I do. I’m as dry as sawdus’. S’pose we’re nearly there, but I can’t touch bottom. I tried just now.”
They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.
“Getting tired, Jem?”
“N–no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?”
“My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?”
“I can see the beach right afore us, but can’t tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they’re a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can.”
“That’s what I’m doing, Jem, but—do you think it’s much further?”
“Now, lookye here, Mas’ Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was—I mean is—Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak.”