“Yes, my father,” replied the lad, and Rodd walked with him to the side.
The men were in their places, with their oars ready to hand to lower at once, Joe Cross holding on in front with his boat-hook through a ring-bolt. A few more words passed between the Count and Uncle Paul, and then the former bade his son descend into his place, following slowly directly after.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night, Rodd!” cried Morny. “We shan’t be long getting to the brig.”
“No,” cried Rodd. “Good-night! Here, one moment; I’ll slip down and come back with the gig.”
Before any one else could speak he had dropped into the boat, his feet touching the nearest thwart as the skipper cried “Let go!” and almost the next moment the men were pulling hard, while Joe Cross dropped upon his knees to feel for the grapnel so as to make sure it was at hand, while to Rodd it seemed that the boat was motionless in the rapid river and that the schooner had been suddenly snatched away.