Away they went together.
It was past ten by the time they reached the usual steps. No boatman was there.
“Tom, come on back. Sleep on shore to-night, old man.”
“What,” cried Tom, “and those three darlings on board! Don’t ye try to persuade me, Bill. You knows Tom o’ the old. Duty is duty, and Tom’ll face it.”
The moon was shining quite brightly, and though the water was rough, the wind was favourable.
“D’ye see the dear old Thunderbolt yonder, Bill? Well, Tom’ll sleep there to-night or—in a sailor’s grave. I think I see the anxious wee faces at the port yonder watching for me. Coming, darlings Tom’s a-coming.”
Tom had kicked off his boots as he spoke; then he relieved himself of what he called his top hamper. But even now his old shipmate could not believe him in earnest. He did, though, when Tom darted from his side and took a header into the tide.
He swam up close in shore first for a good distance, then struck out across, but still heading up. For a time his messmate could even hear him singing a stave of that charming old song—
“Good-night—all’s well.”
“The last long notes,” said his mate, “rang down the wind like a death-knell.”