“We have, sir, and the tide’s running out like five hundred million mill-streams. You come for’ard here and feel how the cable’s all of a jigger, just as if the river had made up its mind to pull it right out of the mud.”
The two lads followed, and it was exactly as the man had said, for the great Manilla rope literally thrilled as if with life, while the river glided by the schooner’s cutwater with a loud hiss.
“Why, Joe,” cried Rodd, as he gazed in the sailor’s dimly-seen face, “how are you going to manage to row back?”
“Well, sir, that’s one of the things I have been asking myself.”
“Well, you had better speak to the skipper.”
“Not me, sir. I’m not going to try to teach him. If I was to say a word he’d jump down my throat bang. Oh, he knows what he’s about, or he wouldn’t have told me to stand by with that there grapnel.”
“Yes, of course he’d know,” said Rodd quietly. “I should like to know how you’d got on.”
The two lads stood listening to the weird sounds from the shore, every now and then being puzzled by something that was entirely fresh, while the swiftly running water gleamed dimly with the faintly seen reflection of the stars, showing that a mist was gathering overhead, while Joe Cross and the men lowered down the boat and hauled her up to the gangway, ready to convey the visitors to the brig.
They had hardly finished preparations before the voices that had come before in murmurs from the cabin were heard ascending to the deck, and the Count cried out of the darkness—
“Are you ready there, Morny, my son?”