Suddenly, however, he dashed the seaman aside and sprang toward his son, but, strong and active as he was, he was no match for a man like Adams, who threw his arms around him and held him in a vice-like grip.
“That will do, mister,” said old Jack, quietly. “I reckon I give in. Th' boy has got to go—an' thet's all about it, an' I ain't agoin' to try an' stop you from takin' him.”
And then as the blue-jackets closed around him, Jim Swain turned.
“Goodbye, dad, and say goodbye to Em for me.”
“Poor old man!” said Fenton to himself, as the party marched along the narrow, sandy track. “Hang me, if I wouldn't be pleased to see the fellow escape.”
The four men who were left in charge of the boat had sprung to their arms the moment they heard the sound of the firing, and for some time they scanned the dark outline of the shore with intense anxiety.
“I guess it's all right,” said one of them at last. “I only heard three or four shots. Hullo! here they come along the beach. Shove in.”
Tramp, tramp, along the hard sand the landing party marched, and a seaman in the boat, picking up a lantern, held it up to guide them.
Two hundred yards behind was Ema Swain, striving hard to catch up with them and see her brother for the last time in this world, she thought.