“I say, don’t,” he shouted. “I see you. Don’t do that.”
“Ashore, quick!” roared the captain, so fiercely that the boy swam harder.
“No,” roared the captain again; “slowly and steadily.”
“Yes, father, but don’t, don’t shoot at me. I’m only bathing.”
“Don’t talk; swim!” cried the captain in a voice of thunder; and the boy swam on, but he did not make rapid way, for the tide, which reached up to where they were, was running fast, and as he swam obliquely across it, he was carried rapidly down.
“What have I done—what does it mean?” he thought, as he swam on, growing so much excited now by the novelty of his position that his limbs grew heavy, and it was not without effort that he neared the bank, still covered by the two guns; and at last touched bottom, waded a few paces, and climbed out to where he was able to mount the slope and stand in safety upon the grass.
“Ned, old fellow, what is it?” whispered Uncle Jack, catching his brother’s arm, for he saw his face turn of a ghastly hue.
“Hush! don’t take any notice. I shall be better directly. Load that empty barrel.”
Uncle John Munday Bedford obeyed in silence, but kept an eye upon his brother as he poured in powder, rammed down a wad, and then sent a charge of big shot rattling into the gun before thrusting in another wad and ramming it home.
As he did all this, and then prised open the pan of the lock to see that it was well filled with the fine powder—for there were no breechloaders in those days, and the captain had decided to take their old flint-lock fowling-pieces for fear that they might be stranded some day up-country for want of percussion caps—the deadly sickness passed off, and Captain Bedford sighed deeply, and began to reload in turn.