“Boatman,” I said, “can you take us on shore?”
He looked about him a bit and nodded. Then I dropped my bag, and he caught it so neatly.
“We’ll get in from a lower port,” I said.
The man nodded again. Off Jill and I went down below to poor Tom Morley’s quarters. Nobody saw us, for everybody was on the upper deck forward, and making a terrible din. In three minutes more we were well away from the ship, but I made Jill lie down for fear of the shot and shell and shrapnel which I expected to be flying about our ears soon, and I myself pulled up the neck of my monkey jacket.
The man rowed right away up the harbour, and, to my intense joy, we had soon put a wall between us and the ships of war.
My heart had been thumping violently, and I dare say so was poor Jill’s.
When we landed, and I was diving for my purse to pay the mail, he held up his hand deprecatingly.
“Look here, youngsters,” he said, “I was a boy myself once. You’ve got into a little scrape, and you’re going to stop away from school till the little storm blows over. I won’t take a penny for this job, and I’ll take you both on board free and for nothing. My name’s Joe Saunders; you can ask for me.”
Then we thanked him and shook hands with him, with the tears in our eyes—in fact I think some rolled over. Next moment we were off and away.
We walked very fast and took the quietest streets. We met some marines, and our hearts began to beat again; but they hardly looked at us.