“Gone overboard.”
“Not seized by one of the loathsome monsters?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Bill, who looked rather startled. “He chopped it, and it scared him over the side.”
“Well, where is he?” cried my uncle, appealing to me, while I looked vainly over the surface, which was now settling down.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “He went over somewhere here.”
“But where did he come up?” cried my uncle. “Haven’t you seen him?”
I was silent, for a terrible feeling of dread kept me from speaking, and my uncle turned to the carpenter.
“No, sir, I haven’t seen him,” was the reply.
“Let the boat drift down. Don’t pull, man, you’re sending us over to the other side. Stop a moment.”
My uncle hurriedly took Pete’s place, seized the oar that was swinging from the rowlock, and began to pull so as to keep the boat from drifting, while I steered.