“Stop that boat,” roared old Prawle, who was now shouting and raving at the end of the pier. “Come back—come back.”
“Don’t listen to the old madman,” cried Tregenna. “Haul up the other sail.”
“We know how to manage our boat,” said Jennen, sulkily; but he seized the rope, one of the others followed his example, and the second sail rose, caught the wind, and the lugger lay over and began to surge through the wares.
“Stop that boat! Murder!” shouted old Prawle, gesticulating furiously, while those who were with him waved their hands and shouted as well.
“Why, there’s old Master Vorlea, the constable,” said one of the men; “and he seems to have gone off his head, too. What’s the matter ashore, Master Tregenna?”
“Matter? I don’t know,” cried Tregenna, hoarsely. “Keep on, and get me to Plymouth as quickly as you can.”
“We’ll try,” said Tom Jennen; “but with this gashly storm a-coming on we’ll never get out of the bay to-day.”
“But you must,” cried Tregenna, excitedly. “A man does not pay fifty pounds unless his business is urgent.”
“Or he wants to get away,” said Tom Jennen, surlily, as he looked back at the pier, now getting indistinct in the haze formed by the spray.
For the sea was rising fast, and as the fishers, who had made fast their boats within the harbour, joined the crowd staring after the lugger that had just put off, they shook their heads, and wondered what could have tempted Tom Jennen and his mates to go.