The schooner came nearer and nearer, with her sails growing so plain that even the ropes that held them glistened white in the moonlight, and looking so beautiful as she glided smoothly onward, that for the moment I forgot our predicament; but I was roused up at last by the master’s voice.
“All together!” he said, quietly. “Hail!”
Our voices rose high in a discordant shout.
“Now again,” cried the master.
Our voices rose once more, and then another shout broke the stillness of the soft night air; but the schooner glided on, her sails hiding everything, so that we did not see a soul on board save the man at the wheel, whose white face gleamed for a few moments as it emerged from the black shadow cast by the great mainsail.
“They’re all asleep,” cried the master, fiercely. “Here, lay holt, Zeke. I say, squire, take holt o’ the tiller, and keep her straight. Hyste away, Elim, we’ll show ’em the rope’s end yet.”
“Look!” cried Gunson, quickly.
“Eh? Why, they did hear us,” cried the master, in a disappointed tone. “Why didn’t they hail back? Shan’t show him the rope’s end arter all.”
For the schooner glided slowly round till she was head to wind; and instead of her sails curving out in the moonlight, they were now dark, save where they shivered and flapped to and fro, so that a part of the canvas glistened now and then in the light.
“Ahoy!” came faintly from her decks, for she was a quarter of a mile away; and in a few minutes a boat dropped over the side with a splash, and four men began to row toward us.