“Pipe down, Charlie, it’s Bill!”
“Bill!” almost shrieked the boy. “Gee whizz, but I’m glad you’ve come. It’s so dark in here—I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. Hustle it up, kid—we’ve got to get out of here in a hurry.”
“Wait till I get my clothes on—”
Bill felt rather than saw the small figure beside him and caught Charlie’s arm. “No time for clothes. You’re wearing something—what is it?”
“One of old Sanders’ nightshirts,” Charlie ruefully returned. “It’s a million sizes too big—as usual, they chuck anything at a—”
“Who do you think you are—” whispered Bill, “the Prince of Wales?”
He pulled Charlie toward the door, opened it and looked out. Someone was coming down the companionway, whistling Yankee Doodle and flatting horribly. Bill jerked back, kept the cabin door on a crack and waited. Presently a door further down the passage slammed and Yankee Doodle was suddenly and mercifully cut short.
Bill wasted no time. Into the corridor, followed by Charlie, he sprang. Number 3 was hurriedly locked and the two ran up the companionway, their bare feet making no noise on the brass-bound rubber treads. Both lads leapt across the deck, slithered into the dinghy and pushed off.
The tide was on the flood and made a splashing noise against the hull sufficient to muffle the click of the oars as Bill dropped them into the row-locks. Gritting his teeth, he took three or four long strokes and then sat still. In the swing of the tide the dinghy drifted silently away from the vessel, and was lost among other crafts at anchor nearby.