“Four dollars!” shouted Gunson. “There’s a good light wind, and you can soon reach her.”
Still no one stirred, the men staring at us in a dull, apathetic way.
“Five dollars,” cried Gunson, angrily.
“Say, stranger,” said one of the men, “what’s your hurry? stole suthin’?”
“No,” I shouted; “but it’s as if they have. Our chests are aboard, and we’ve paid our passage.”
“Come on then,” said one of the men, rousing himself. “I’ll take you for five dollars. Jump in.”
He led the way to a little skiff, two more of his companions following him, and they rowed us out to one of the fishing-boats, made fast the one we had come in with the painter, cast off the buoy-rope, and began to hoist a sail, with the result that a soft pattering sound began under the boat’s bows, and she careened over and began to glide softly away, the man who had gone to the rudder guiding her safely through the vessels lying by the buoy near the shore.
“There,” cried Gunson, taking off the pea-jacket he wore, and throwing it to Esau. “Put that on, my lad; and here, eat away if you’re hungry. You shall tell us afterwards where you’ve been.”
“But they’ve got my money,” said Esau, in an ill-used tone.
“Then we must share with you, and set you up. Think we shall catch the schooner, skipper?”