On this particular evening, as Bob made his way aft, a sailor followed him at a respectful distance. While he stood at the bar, the man, who was partially concealed behind a stanchion, took off his hat and waved it once or twice in the air, whereupon a figure which was crouching at the end of the wood-pile sprung up and darted into the gangway like a flash. It was Guy Harris.
Rapid as his movements were, however, he did not succeed in entering the gangway without discovery; for Bob, having received some change from the steward, who at once closed the bar and went off, faced about, and while putting the money away in his purse, happened to cast his eye toward the pier just in time to see Guy jump up from behind the wood-pile. He thought he recognized him, and to make sure of it leaned quickly over the side and obtained a good view of him.
“Now that plan won’t work, my young friend,” he exclaimed, and so astonished was he that he spoke the words aloud. “It will never do to let you stay here. I’ll have you put off again before you are five minutes older.”
Bob hastily put the purse into his pocket and was hurrying forward when he found himself brought to a stand-still by a burly fellow who suddenly stepped before him and blocked up his path.
“Hold hard there!” said the latter. “Where are you going?”
“I want to find the steward,” answered Bob, trying to crowd by the sailor.
“Hold hard there, I say!” repeated the man, seizing Bob by the collar and pushing him back. “What do you want to see the steward for?”
“What’s that to you, you insolent fellow? Let me pass, and don’t dare put your hand on me again. If you do, I will report you to the captain.”
“Oh, you will, will you? Come on, there’s the old man on the pier.”
Flint, for it was he, linked his brawny arm through Bob’s and made a motion to pull him toward the stairs, but the boy drew back.