“I’se understand yo’, boss,” replied the black man.
As Captain Jonas French hauled in his mainsheet and the sloop’s sail filled, Pedro made obliquely for shore. Having no need of speed, he made less demand on the engine than he had been doing.
Some time later Pedro ran halfway into a little cove that dented the mainland of Massachusetts. Stopping the speed he stepped forward and cast over an anchor, reeling in the slack and making fast. This done, the darky drew out an old pipe, filled it and lighted it, settling back for a lazy smoke.
And Tom Halstead? He was doing his best not to pant and betray himself, but his had been a rough experience. None but a boy as much at home in the water as on land could have stood the strain of this performance.
When Tom went overboard, striking the water, the cold shock had aroused all his faculties. He went over the starboard gunwale and, finding himself going, had had the sense to dive as deeply as he could. He passed under the hull, coming out at port. Then he turned, keeping still under water until one of his hands touched the port side of the hull.
Just as this happened Halstead’s other hand struck a line trailing in the water. Then the boy was forced to come up for air. As he did so he heard the voices of the pair aboard over at the starboard gunwale. That gave Tom a safe chance to give the trailing rope a pull. It held, showing that it was made fast on board.
Necessity makes one think fast. To Tom the discovery of this rope was a most unexpected bit of good fortune. As soon as he had time to get his breath, he tied a loop in it securely. Through this he could thrust one or both arms, at need.
The trailing overboard of a line in this fashion was a piece of disorderly ship’s housekeeping of which an American skipper would hardly be guilty. But the sailors of the Latin races are less particular. That line might have been over the gunwale for hours or even days, but a man like Alvarez would give little heed to it.
When the launch went on her way again Tom had his right arm hooked well through the loop. He floated, his feet astern along the side, though in no danger from rudder or propeller. His head, out of water, was hidden by the bulging lines of the launch’s side hull. He was not likely to be discovered unless one of the occupants of the launch leaned well out and looked down.
“If only they’d run a little slower this would be about as easy as lying in a soft bed,” chuckled the young motor boat captain gleefully. He had grinned broadly at Don Emilio’s seeming unconcern over his fate.