But Bruce was a practiced stowaway. He slunk forward, and found a refuge under the bow seat.
"Push off, lads!" Eli shouted. "Give way!"
In ten minutes the skiff had passed from the harbour to the sea. Eli Zitt, who worked the scull oar, turned her bow towards the Iron Head rocks. It was dark; but he had fished those waters from boyhood, and he knew the way, daylight or dark.
Dark it was, indeed! How was Bobby to be found in that great shadow? He was a water-dog, was Bobby; but there was a limit to his endurance, and half an hour at least had passed since old Sol Sludge had heard his cry for help.
A long search meant failure. He must be found soon or he would not be found at all. On went the boat, the water curling from her bows and swirling in her wake. The phosphorescence flashed and glowed as the oars were struck deep and lifted.
"He'll be swimmin' in," Bill Watt panted, when the skiff had covered half the distance to Deep Down. "They's no place for him t' land with this sea on. We ought t' meet him hereabouts."
"If he's afloat," Topsail added.
"Oh, he's afloat yet," Eli said, confidently. "He's a strong swimmer, that lad is."
"I'm thinkin' he'll be nearer shore," said Bill Watt.