"Now be more careful, this time, Sandy," said Richard, as he put the boat about upon the other tack.
"Don't give me any more lip, Dick, and I will do any thing you want," replied Sandy, mollified by the altered tones of his friend.
"Don't get mad; we have no time to quarrel, if we mean to put this thing through to-night."
"I am ready to put it through, but I have no notion of being treated like a slave or a fool," said Sandy, as he lay down upon the half-deck, and began to gaze into the gloom ahead of the boat. "Luff a little," he added, as he discovered the dim outline of the shore.
"Luff, it is."
This time, both boys spoke in a low tone, and the want of harmony which a few moments before had threatened to break up the enterprise, and end in a game of rough and tumble, was removed. The Greyhound, under the skilful management of Richard,—for there was not a better sailor of his years on the Hudson,—was thrown into the inlet without touching the rocks which lay at the entrance.
Sandy, with the painter in his hand, jumped ashore, and made fast to a small tree on the bank. Neither of the boys spoke a loud word, and Richard carefully brailed up the sails, so that their flapping should not attract the attention of any person who might be in the vicinity.
"Now, Dick, if you will follow me, I will lead you up to Old Batterbones' garden," whispered Sandy, when the sail boat had been properly secured.
"I will follow you. Have you got the bag?"
"Yes—all right."