“In with you then,” said Aleck.
“Nay, nay,” whispered Tom. “She arn’t afloat, Eben Megg. Here, lay yer weight on to her if yer can’t shove.”
“Hi! hallo there!” cried a voice from the direction where the struggle had taken place.
In response there was the sound of the boat’s keel grating on the water-covered shingle, and the smuggler pressed close up to Aleck’s side.
“Do you hear there?” came from the same quarter. “In the King’s name, stand!”
“Lay yer backs into it,” grunted Tom. “Shove, my lads, shove!”
“Come on, my lads! We must have them, whoever they are,” came from apparently close at hand.
“Ah, look sharp! There’s a boat.”
“Now for it,” whispered Tom, and as he grunted hard the boat began to glide from shingle and water into water alone, while as Aleck thrust with all his might, knee-deep now, he felt the boat give way, and then it seemed to him that the smuggler sank down beside him, making a feeble clutch at his clothes and uttering a low groan.
Aleck’s left hand acted as it were upon its own responsibility, closing in the darkness upon Eben’s shirt and holding fast, while the lad’s right hand held up the boat’s gunwale.