“Right; then we will take her.”
A low humming buzz went up at this, and Mark went on,—
“We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is sharper than ours.”
“You trust us, sir. We’ll have her,” whispered Tom Fillot. “We must.”
“Then, now—silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better. When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance will hook on. You will all follow me—”
“And the schooner’s ours once more.”
“If it is the schooner,” said Mark, dubiously.
“If she ain’t, she’s a slaver, sir,” replied Tom Fillot, “and that’s enough for we.”
They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water, which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows, which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the stem.
Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water, and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the shore, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly food.