"Pull,—pull like hell," he yelled.
They needed no second bidding, for they shot out into the Bay as if a thousand devils were after them.
I turned to ascertain who my deliverer could be; and there, on the beach, only a few yards away, stood Mary Grant with a serviceable-looking revolver held firmly in her right hand.
"What? You! Mary,—Mary," I cried in an agony of thought at the awful risk she had run.
"Are you all right, George?" she inquired anxiously.
"Right as rain," I answered, hurrying to her side.
"Did they get Jake's trunk away?"
"No! The low thieves! It is lying there in the water. Do you think you could help me up with it?"
She caught up the trunk at one end, while I took the other. And we carried it back between us to Jake's cabin.
Poor old Jake! I could hardly smother a smile as I saw the dejected figure he presented. His grey hair was drooping over his forehead, every line in his face showed a droop, and his long, white moustache drooped like the tusks of a walrus, or like the American comic journals' representations of the whiskers of ancient and fossilised members of the British peerage.