“Ha!” said Peterkin in a whisper, as he stepped upon the beach, “is that you, Avatea?”
“Yis, it am me,” was the reply.
“All right! Now, then, gently. Help me to shove off the canoe,” whispered Jack to the teacher; “and Peterkin, do you shove these blankets aboard, we may want them before long. Avatea, step into the middle;—that’s right.”
“Is all ready?” whispered the teacher.
“Not quite,” replied Peterkin. “Here, Ralph, lay hold o’ this pair of oars, and stow them away if you can. I don’t like paddles. After we’re safe away I’ll try to rig up rollicks for them.”
“Now, then, in with you and shove off.”
One more earnest squeeze of the kind teacher’s hand, and, with his whispered blessing yet sounding in our ears, we shot like an arrow from the shore, sped over the still waters of the lagoon, and paddled as swiftly as strong arms and willing hearts could urge us over the long swell of the open sea.
All that night and the whole of the following day we plied our paddles in almost total silence and without halt, save twice to recruit our failing energies with a mouthful of food and a draught of water. Jack had taken the bearing of the island just after starting, and laying a small pocket-compass before him, kept the head of the canoe due south, for our chance of hitting the island depended very much on the faithfulness of our steersman in keeping our tiny bark exactly and constantly on its proper course. Peterkin and I paddled in the bow, and Avatea worked untiringly in the middle.
As the sun’s lower limb dipped on the gilded edge of the sea Jack ceased working, threw down his paddle, and called a halt.
“There,” he cried, heaving a deep, long-drawn sigh, “we’ve put a considerable breadth of water between us and these black rascals, so now we’ll have a hearty supper and a sound sleep.”