“Where is the boatman?” asked Marie, as she followed Juliette and Barebone along the deserted jetty. A light burnt dimly at the end of it and one or two boats must have been moored near at hand; for the water could be heard lapping under their bows, a secretive, whispering sound full of mystery.
“I am the boatman,” replied Loo, over his shoulder. “Are you afraid?”
“What is the good of being afraid?” asked this woman of the world, stopping at the head of the steps and peering down into the darkness into which he had descended. “What is the good of being afraid when one is old and married? I was afraid enough when I was a girl, and pretty and coquette like Mademoiselle, here. I was afraid enough then, and it was worth my while—allez!”
Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a sprightly past. The present darkness and the coming storm commanded his full attention. In the breathless silence, Juliette and Marie—and behind them, Jean, panting beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder—could hear the wet rope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the bump of the heavy boat against the timber of the steps.
This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a well-greased sheave and the square lug, which had been the joy of little Sep Marvin at Farlingford, crept up to the truck of the stubby mast.
“There is no wind for that,” remarked Marie, pessimistically.
“There will be to spare in a few minutes,” answered Barebone, and the monosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent grunt.
“Luggage first,” said Barebone, lapsing into the curtness of the sea. “Come along. Let us make haste.”
They stumbled on board as best they could, and were guided to a safe place amidships by Loo, who had thrown a spare sail on the bottom of the boat.
“As low as you can,” he said. “Crouch down. Cover yourselves with this. Right over your heads.”