A rush followed the command, and then a pistol shot rang out, Aleck seeing the flash; but the shot did not stop the man who received the command. As far as Aleck in his excitement could make out he rushed at and closed with him who tried to stop him, when a desperate struggle ensued as of two men wrestling upon the cobble stones, their hoarse panting coming strangely to the listeners’ ears.
All thought of launching the boat was swept away by the excitement of listening to the struggle, which grew more painful as the voice that had uttered the command rose again in half-stifled tones:
“This way, lads; help!”
A dull thud followed, as of a heavy blow being delivered, followed by a fall and the rush of footsteps again, but this time over the loose shingle, and the next minute a dimly-seen figure approached, running straight for the water.
But instead of the man running into the harbour, he turned sharp to his left on catching sight of the boat and staggered up to it.
“Who’s that?” he said, hoarsely. “You, Tom Bodger—Master Aleck? Here, quick, sir; for the love of heaven save a poor fellow! It’s the press-gang. Got five on us. Help, sir! Shove off with me. I’m too dead beat to swim.”
“I can’t help you, Eben. I dare not,” cried Aleck. “What could I do?”
“Oh! but, Master Aleck—hark! there’s more coming!”
“I tell you I can’t. I dare not. They’re the King’s men, and—”
“Where are you, your honour?” came out of the darkness, to be answered by a groan and a feeble attempt at a whistle.