“Then mind what you are at.”
“Do you see this?” said the waterman, indicating with his fore finger the extreme point of his nose, an action which seemed to be especially aggravating to the officer, who immediately said to the boy,—
“Pull alongside of him—pull away.”
“Pull away,” echoed Albert’s waterman, as with a laugh, he bent himself to his work, and soon left the other wherry behind, without a hope of overtaking him.
When the wherry was out of ear-shot, he turned to Albert and said,—
“You see, sir, he didn’t know you.”
“No, my disguise appears to be effectual. Get now as near to the other boat as you like.”
The man nodded, and in a few moments, Albert Seyton was so near to Jacob Gray that he could almost have sprung from one boat to the other.
Gray looked anxiously and suspiciously at the wherry, but as it, to his eyes, contained only two watermen, he never for a moment dreamt of any danger from it.
Albert buried his chin in the ample collar of the coat, and as his boat passed so close to the one Gray was in that the watermen had both to ship their oars, he gazed with no little emotion upon the pale sallow face of the man who he would have travelled all over the world to meet, in order to wring from him the knowledge of where to find his much-loved and cruelly-persecuted Ada.