The stroke trailed his oar.
"What are you about, Bill Tomkins, stopping for coral! I never saw a mite round here. You stop when I give the order.—Don't be too much of a fool, Cynthy! Do you know we're running for our lives? Look back at that Yankee of ours, and see if there are any other——"
"I see only one lonely man. He looks repentant, as well as I can make out. Let's go back and—Why, yes! There are some other people, too. They seem to——"
"Go slow there, ahead!" called out the Skipper, standing up as he spoke.
He held the steering oar firmly and looked for a landing place, trying vainly to see over the heads of those in the boat.
"Tom, jump up there in the bows, and see if you see any——"
"There goes another piece of the flag! O Uncle Tony! they've almost shot our flag away."
The spyglass dropped with a bump into the bottom of the boat, and Cynthia put her hands inside the funnel and over her eyes, and burst into floods of tears. She did not cry like a young lady. She cried like a young cyclone.
"Damn those Britishers!" shrieked the parrot.
"Yes, damn them, Solomon dear! Damn them again, since there's no one here to even——"