"No chance of a deal now we've got here, boys," he said. "There's a steamer coming in. She'll be heading south at this season, and it's not going to take them long to heave a few bundles of furs on board her, so if you've any letters to go along with mine you'd better be handy getting the boat over."
They had her out in about two minutes, and as it was Stickine's boat the lads who sprang down refused to come out of her. She was also the biggest boat they had, and had in all probability seldom travelled faster than she did for the first mile or so. There was scarcely a breath of wind now, and the long swell ran with them, while Niven remembered what the letter he had written would mean to those who had long waited for news of him at home as he put all his strength into the oar. Appleby also recollected the tenderness he had now and then seen in Mrs. Niven's eyes as she looked at her son, and her kindness to him, and strained every muscle, for now at least it seemed he could do a little to repay her.
So they sent the boat foaming over the long swell, but each time she rose the land seemed very little nearer, and when at last a smear of smoke rose out of the greyness that hung about it, Stickine spoke.
"The steamer's firing up! You've got to stretch out, boys."
Panting and gasping they swayed up and down, the oars thudding, and the grey sea frothing under them when the boat surged forward quivering at every stroke. Still, when the veins on Appleby's forehead felt swollen to the bursting and Appleby's eyes were dim the land was at least a mile from them, and a jarring rattle came off across the water.
"Windlass going! She'll be off soon as they heave her anchor. Stiffen up," said Stickine.
The lads did what they could, for they knew it was a good deal they were rowing for. The letter they carried would bring relief from torturing anxiety to those who loved them, and tranquillity to a mother's mind, while Niven, half-choked as he was, nerved his aching arms as he remembered how in all his follies his father had borne with him. Appleby was aiding him loyally, his lips set, his face almost purple, and still, though Stickine and Donegal made the oars creak and groan, the land was only crawling towards them.
"You've got to do it, boys! There's folks back south worrying 'bout most of us," said Stickine when the scream of a whistle came off to them.
Neither of the lads had more than a hazy recollection of the last ten minutes. They had no breath left, every joint was aching, but their arms still moved almost without their will, and they were dimly sensible of the thud of oars, gurgle of water, and lurch of the quivering boat beneath them. They felt they could not be beaten now. At last while the whistle screamed again something big and black bore down on them, and they heard the thudding of engines and the flap-flap of a slowly-turning propeller.
"Stop pulling. Hang on to her," gasped Stickine, and then while the oars rested in their palms the lads could see that the bows of a steamer hung almost over them. Next moment there was a crash, and they were being hauled along with the froth splashing about them and Donegal holding on to something desperately. A man was shouting above them, and while the foam that was piled about her bows sluiced into the boat Stickine roared out hoarsely, "Letters!"