“Here’s Master Tregenna says he’ll give us thirty poun’ if we’ll take him across to—”
“Hush!” cried Tregenna. “Yes, I’ll give you thirty pounds, my men.”
“There’ll be quite a big storm directly,” said another of the men. “Thirty poun’s a lot o’ money, but life’s more.”
“Fifty, then. Here, fifty!” cried Tregenna, desperately. “Fifty pounds, if you start at once.”
He took the crisp, rustling bank-notes from his pocket-book, and held them out, and it was too much for the men. They glanced at one another, and then their decision was made.
“Here, hand it over, and jump in,” cried Tom Jennen; and, thrusting the notes into his pocket, he pointed to the boat, and no sooner had Tregenna leaped in than, shortening his hold of the line, he began to pull, while his mates handled their hitchers to set the lugger free.
Another minute, and Tom Jennen had leaped aboard, and they were hauling up one of the sails, which began to flap and fill. Then one of them ran to the tiller, the lugger gathered way, and rode round to the end of the pier, rising to the summit of a good-sized wave, and gliding down the other side, as a little mob of people came running down the pier, shouting to them to stop.
“Take no notice. Go on,” cried Tregenna, excitedly.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said Tom Jennen, who, like his companions, was in profound ignorance of the events that had taken place while they were away.
“Keep on, and get out to sea,” cried Tregenna, fiercely. “I have paid you to take me, and you have the money.”