Gripping her arm tight and whispering, “Don’t speak! Not a sound!” Ruth led her rapidly to the end of the rope ladder.
“Follow me. Drop in the boat. Sit perfectly still.”
Tremblingly, Betty obeyed. Presently they were in the punt. The sound of rowing came much more clearly now. They could even hear the labored breathing of the oarsmen.
Thankful for the darkness, Ruth thrust an oar into a socket at the back of the boat and began wabbling it about in the water. She was sculling, the most silent way to move a boat through the water.
“We-we’ll go round the bow,” she thought, as a sudden sound set her heart racing.
“If only they don’t light another flare!”
With a prayer on her lips which was half supplication for forgiveness and half petition for safety, she threw all her superb strength into the task before her.
Many times she had rowed around the Black Gull. Never before had it seemed half so far.
Now they had covered half the distance, now three-quarters. And now there came a panic-inspiring gleam of light on the sea. It lasted a second, then blinked out.
“Only a match.” Her heart gave a bound of joy. “But if they strike another, if they are attempting to light a flare!” She redoubled her energy at the oar. Great beads of perspiration stood out on her brow as they rounded the stern of the ship.