“There, pull away, my lads, and let’s get on board. This is no time for skylarking.”
The men bent to their oars again, and the boat answered to its name, cutting swiftly through the water towards the little man-o’-war.
“But there will be a row about it, old fellow,” whispered Bob Howlett.
“Oh, very well then, they must row,” said Mark Vandean pettishly. “There’s no harm in having a monkey onboard—if we can get it there.”
“Don’t you be uneasy about that, Mr Vandean, sir,” said the stroke oarsman; “me and my mates’ll smuggle the young nigger gent aboard somehow, even if I has to lend him my duds.”
“You leave off cutting jokes, Tom Fillot, and pull hard.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried the man, chuckling, and he and his fellows made the boat skim through the glowing water.
“Perhaps the letter is important,” said the first middy, “and may mean business at last.”
“I hope not,” said the other. “I’m sick of it. Nothing but wild-goose chases after phantom ships. I don’t believe there are any slavers on the coast.”
“Oh, aren’t there, Bob?”