"Where's William Brown?" I asked. We were about three boats' lengths from the ship. Cynthia arose in her seat.
"O Uncle! wait!" she called; "I must go back a moment. I have forgotten something."
The Skipper paid no more attention than if she had not spoken.
"Not too short a stroke, Bill," he said, "but strong, strong. Am I keeping the Yankee Blade between us?"
"You be, sir," answered the stroke.
Cynthia sat down, impelled to do so partly by the jerk of the oars and partly by the silence of her Uncle.
"I thought you never forgot him for a moment."
"I never do. That was the only time all this voyage. If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Jones——"
This sentence was subject to two constructions. I tried to look upon it as an admission.
A shot fell over the Yankee Blade and pierced the water just behind us.