“You thought,” growled Tom, scornfully. “What right’s a chap like you to think?”
“But I thought the press-gang had got me.”
“Well, I was pressing on yer as hard as I could to keep yer from shouting and flying out of the boat. Here’s Master Aleck and me getting oursens into no end o’ trouble to keep you out o’ the press-gang’s hands, and you begins shouting to ’em to come and take you.”
“I’m very sorry, mate. I s’pose I was off my head a bit—seemed to wake up out of a bad dream about fighting. Yes, that’s it; I recollect now. Where’s the gang?”
“Cruising about trying to find us.”
“It’s so dark. Where are we?”
“Somewheers out beyond the pier head, and it’s all as black as the inside of a barrel o’ pitch. Keep quiet; don’t talk so loud.”
“No, mate,” said the smuggler, petulantly; “but I’m not quite myself. I got a crack on the head from something; I’ve been bleeding a bit. But, tell me, are we safe?”
“Dunno yet. Hope so.”
“Am I lying in Master Aleck’s boat?”