“Pst!”
Unwittingly they had been slowly sailing right for one of the sloop’s boats, and their whispers had been heard, for from out of the darkness, and apparently a very little way off, came a hail and an order to stop.
“Shall us stop, sir?” said Tom.
“Stop going that way. Helm down, Tom,” whispered Aleck; and the little sail swung over and filled on the other side, the water rippling gently under their bows. Otherwise it was so silent that they could hear whispers away to their right, followed by a softly given order, which was followed by the dip, dip, dip, dip of oars, and they glided so closely by the rowers that Aleck fancied he could see the man-o’-war’s boat.
A couple of minutes later they tacked again, and were sailing on, when all at once Aleck whispered, as he leaned over his companion:
“That must be the low line of the fog bank, Tom. Look how black it is!”
“Where, sir?”
“Over where I’m pointing,” replied Aleck.
“By jinks!” growled Tom, excitedly, shifting the rudder and throwing the wind out of the sail, which flapped for a bit and then once more filled on the other tack.
“What was it, Tom?”