“Ah, say! See what you did to me!” cried George, now soaking wet to the waistline.
“Quick! Never mind the wet—there go our tea chests!” yelled Jack, trying to save the drum as it floated away from the raft.
Jim and George, over-anxious to save their cargo, suddenly leaned out to catch the bobbing cartons and boxes, when the unbalanced raft tilted treacherously over with the weight of the three boys and shot them all into the stream.
The screams and shouts of dismay brought the three Americans running to the Boston port, and as they stood laughing unfeelingly at the scene in the water, the British declared they’d get even when they landed in Boston.
“Better get here first!” called Anne.
“We’ll salute you with guns all right!” added John grimly.
“So’ll we! We’ll go back to London and find some guns and shot, too,” promised George, looking at the Americans and then at Jack, who was wallowing through the mud to gain the bank again.
“Jim, haul up your ship for us to load with ammunition,” ordered George, as soon as Jim’s head appeared from under the raft, where he had rolled when the warship keeled over.
But the clever Yanks kept all news of their ammunition from the eyes and ears of the British. Then, having found some long sticks that would answer for guns, the three mariners set sail again on their dangerous journey across the sea—a distance of thirty feet from bank to bank.
This time the raft was kept balanced, while the three stood hugging each other in the center of the boards. Their shoes and coats had been left on the woodpile, so they were not hampered with overmuch clothing.