The Girl stood on the stairs close behind him.
"I must have been mistaken," he murmured, "or perhaps it was a seagull,"—when, just below and almost alongside them, there came the violent sweep of an oar used as a paddle, and a wild spate of curses like the furious outburst of a panic-stricken brain.
Wulf slipped noiselessly down for his axe and stepped up on deck. If he went past, well and good. If he ran into them——
There came a sudden bump against the side of their ship and the sound of a fall on the raft.
"—— —— —— —— ye, ye —— —— rotten old coffin! I've got ye at last, —— —— ——!" and right up out of the fog under Wulfrey's nose came two clammy black hands clawing nervously at the bulwark.
"You can't come aboard here, Macro," he said quietly. The grimy hands loosed with a startled oath and the mate dropped back on to his raft.
"——! That you again? —— —— —— —— you! I thought.... Then my —— craft must be over there. —— —— ——! I'll do for you yet, my cully!" and the oar dashed into the water again and he cursed himself off into the darkness.
"You could have killed him," gasped The Girl at his side, through her chattering teeth.
"I could—but I couldn't."
"We shall have no peace while he lives."