“Jump!” was Mr. Dacre’s response. “These steamers don’t make landings. I’m glad Chillingworth was in time, or we might have been carried on to Seattle.”
And now the boat was cleverly run in alongside. She came up under the lee of the heavily rolling steamer, her sails flapping with a loud report as the wind died out of them.
“Hul-lo, Dacre!” came up a hearty hail from the big figure in the stern. “Hullo there, boys! Ready to come aboard?”
“Aye, aye, Colton!” hailed back Mr. Dacre. “We’ll be with you in a minute.”
“If we don’t tumble overboard first,” muttered Jack to himself.
“Better take the lower deck, sir,” suggested one of the deck hands.
Accordingly, our party traversed the faded splendors of the little steamer’s saloon and emerged presently by her paddle box. Between the side of the vessel and the big curved box was a triangular platform.
“Stand out on this, sir, and you and the boys jump from it,” suggested the deck hand.
“A whole lot easier to say than to do,” was Tom’s mental comment. He said nothing aloud, however.
In the meantime their baggage had been lowered by a sling. A second person, who had just emerged from the cabin of the little boat, was active in stowing it in the cockpit. This personage was a Chinaman. He wore no queue, however, but still clung to the loose blue blouse and trousers of his country.