“Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?”
“Hist!”
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“Talk lower. What’s that? It may be enemies.”
“Phew!” whistled Tom Fillot, softly. “It was behind me. I didn’t see that. There, you have it.”
He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by someone here and there.
“Ashore,” whispered Mark.
“Afloat,” said Tom. “It’s somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!”
There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the disappearance of the light, and silence once more.
“What do you make of it, sir?” whispered Tom.