“Ay, ay, my lad.”
“Are the boats very far away?”
“Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile.”
“Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?”
“And tell my mother—”
“Now, look here,” cried Jem. “I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas’ Don, I’ve tried it easy with you, and I’ve tried it hard; and now I says this: if you’ve made up your mind to go down, why, let’s shake hands, and go down together, like mates.”
“No, no; you must swim ashore.”
“Without you?”
“Jem, I can do no more.”