“I telled you, sir. ’Cause we should be capsized before we had time to wink. Steady, my lads—steady! It’s no use to pull, Mr Rodd; four times as many of us couldn’t stem a stream like this.”
“Will they come down after us? Yes, my uncle is sure to.”
“Not he, sir. It would be just about mad to try it, and our old man will be so wild at being caught like this that he won’t let him stir. ’Sides that, sir, what are you talking about? How are they to know we have been swept away?”
“Because we don’t come back, of course,” cried Rodd angrily.
“That won’t do, sir. Skipper knows, of course, after the way we went off, that it’s just impossible.”
“But the Count will tell him.”
“Too far off for shouting, sir. You take my word for it that the skipper will make up his mind that we are stopping on board the brig till the tide runs slack again. If anything’s done it will be by the Frenchies, and I don’t believe they’ll try.”
“Oh, but the Count would. His son would make him.”
“No, sir. The Count’s a fine naval officer who has seen service, and he knows too well what he’s about to send a boat’s crew swirling down this river to go nobody knows where. The only folks as can help us is—”
“Yes—who?” cried Rodd, for the man broke off in his speech.