When they did at length break silence, it was in short interjectional remarks, as they resumed the oars.
Mr Jones, without making a remark of any kind, shipped the rudder; the other four pulled.
“Shall we make for land?” asked Jim Welton, after a time.
“Not wi’ the tide running like this,” answered Jones; “we’ll make the Gull, and get ’em to take us aboard till morning. At slack tide we can go ashore.”
In perfect silence they rowed towards the floating light, which was not more than a mile distant from the scene of the disaster. As the ebb tide was running strong, Jim hailed before they were close alongside—“Gull, ahoy! heave us a rope, will you?”
There was instant bustle on board the floating light, and as the boat came sweeping past a growl of surprise was heard to issue from the mate’s throat as he shouted, “Look out!”
A rope came whirling down on their heads, which was caught and held on to by Jim.
“All right, father,” he said, looking up.
“All wrong, I think,” replied the sire, looking down. “Why. Jim, you always turn up like a bad shilling, and in bad company too. Where ever have you come from this time?”
“From the sea, father. Don’t keep jawin’ there, but help us aboard, and you’ll hear all about it.”