“Ourselves, sir; and we shall find it precious hard.”
“That’s right, Joe,” said one of the other sailors. “Better speak out, mate, and say the worst on it.”
“Say it yourselves,” cried Joe Cross roughly.
“Yes, speak out,” cried Rodd. “What do you think?”
“We can do nothing, sir, but keep her head straight and go down with the tide, doing all we can to keep from being sucked into the shore among the trees.”
“But look here, Joe, aren’t we very close in now?” cried Rodd, who had just noticed in the darkness that the sailor he addressed was leaning over the bows and straining his eyes in one particular direction.
For answer the man yelled to his messmates to pull with all their might.
The oars dipped, but at the second stroke there was a crashing rustling sound of twigs, followed by a sharp crackling and snapping, as they were swept in amongst the pendant branches of some huge forest tree, one bough striking Rodd across the shoulders and holding him as it were fast, so that the boat was being dragged from beneath him.
Then there was more grinding of the gunwale of the boat amongst the boughs, the water came swishing in over the side, and directly after the frail vessel partly turned over, with her keel lying sideways to the rushing tide.
Then more crackling and rustling amongst the boughs, mingled with shouting from the boat’s crew, and from out of the confusion, and somewhere above him in the pitchy darkness and low-lying night mist, came the voice of Joe Cross—