“And me, messmet,” cried another, the two speakers holding on by the side which they had reached after being thrown from the schooner.
“No, no, hold on, mates,” cried Tom. “Let’s get Mr Vandean first. What was that ’ere?”
“Pig o’ ballast they chucked over to stave the bottom,” growled Dick Bannock, beginning to row. “If I hadn’t shoved her off, they’d ha’ sunk us.”
“We’ll sink them yet,” growled Tom Fillot. “Coming, Mr Van, sir. We’ll have you directly. Easy, mates,” he cried, throwing in his oar, and leaning over again toward where Mark was swimming steadily facing the tide, but letting himself drift, content to keep afloat.
“Can you reach him, mate?” growled Dick.
“Not quite; pull your oar,” cried Tom. “That’s right. Hooray! Got him!”
This last was given with a yell of triumph, as he made a snatch at Mark’s wrist, caught it firmly, and hauled the dripping lad over into the boat.
“Thankye,” said Mark, panting. “I’m all right. Now then, help these two fellows in.—Well done!”
He said this breathlessly as he stood up and gave himself a shake, and then as the two men who had held on went to their places, he resumed his seat and looked round.
“Who’s missing?” he cried.