Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. As a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. No matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters.
In ten seconds’ time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the Mary, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set for the big boat pursuing—not now to shun a collision, but seek it.
As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no. It would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. True there will be four against two; but what of it?
“I think we can manage them, Jack,” he mutters through his teeth, “I’m good for two of them—the biggest and best.”
“An’ I t’other two—sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin’ care o’ ’em, Captin.”
“I know it. Keep to your oars, till I give the word to drop them.”
“They don’t ’pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as not when they see what’s comin’ they’ll sheer off.”
“They shan’t have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them. Don’t fear the result. If the Mary get damaged I’ll stand the expense of repairs.”
“Ne’er a mind ’bout that, Captain. I’d gi’e the price o’ a new boat to see the lot chastised—specially that big black fellow as did most o’ the talkin’.”
“You shall see it, and soon!”