“Lower away.”
The boats descended rapidly and soon rested upon the water where they danced and bobbed about like corks on the angry waves.
“Get aboard, Sam,” urged Grant.
Making no objection, the negro quickly lowered himself into the waiting boat. Fred, John, Grant and George followed in order, leaving only Petersen on board the brig. He stood with the painter in his hand, awaiting the word to leave.
“Unship your oars,” he called.
“All right,” answered Grant.
There were two pairs of oars in the boat and every one of the four boys took charge of one of them. Sam cowered in the bow of the boat shuddering and still murmuring over and over again, “Dat Finn, dat Finn.”
At the sound of Petersen’s voice from the deck above, however, he half raised himself. “Who dat talkin’?” he demanded.
“One of the sailors,” said Grant carelessly, knowing what was passing in the black man’s mind.
“Dat Petersen,” said Sam. “Am he comin’ on dis heah boat?”