“An’ lay a hand to her wheel,” repeated the skipper. “An’ lay a hand to her wheel!”
They ran in––full into the lee of her––and rounded to under the stern. The sails of the skiff flapped noisily and the water slapped her sides. They rested breathless––waiting an event which might warn them to be off into hiding in the fog. But no disquieting sound came from the schooner––no startled exclamation, no hail, no footfall: nothing but the creaking of the anchor chain and the rattle of the blocks aloft. A schooner loomed up and shot past like a shadow; then silence.
Archie gave a low hail in French. There was no response from the Heavenly Home; nor did a second hail, in a raised voice, bring forth an answering sound. It was all silent and dark aboard. So Skipper Bill reached out with the gaff and drew the boat up the lee side. He chuckled a bit and shook himself. It seemed to Archie that he freed his arms and loosened his great muscles as for a fight. With a second chuckle he caught the rail, leaped from the skiff like a cat and rolled over on the deck of his own schooner. 150
They heard the thud of his fall––a muttered word or two, mixed up with laughter––then the soft fall of his feet departing aft. For a long time nothing occurred to inform them of what the skipper was about. They strained their ears. In the end they heard a muffled cry, which seemed to come out of the shoreward cloud of fog––a thud, as though coming from a great distance––and nothing more.
“What’s that?” Archie whispered.
“’Tis a row aboard a Frenchman t’ win’ard, sir,” said Josiah. “’Tis a skipper beatin’ a ’prentice. They does it a wonderful lot.”
Five minutes passed without a sign of the skipper. Then he came forward on a run. His feet rang on the deck. There was no concealment.
“I’ve trussed up the watchman!” he chortled.
Archie and Josiah clambered aboard.