Once more their punt, creeping forward in the dark, rounded the ship’s hull and came at last to a point but a boat’s length from a long, dark bulk just ahead.
“Their boat,” thought Ruth. “We’ll be away in a moment.” But they were not.
That they were taking grave chances, Ruth knew right well. Her heart was in her throat as she sent her punt gliding through the dark. Only thoughts of her beloved Maine and the ancient six-master that stood for so much that was grand and glorious in the past could have induced her to run the risk. Run the risk she did. Trouble came sooner than she dreamed.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the dim light told her that there was no one in the long boat that had brought the black-robed crew to the ship.
Her relief was short lived. She had succeeded in untying the painter of that other boat and swinging it half about, when there came a harsh jangling of chains. A rusty chain dangling from the side of the ship had caught in the stern of the long boat and, slipping free, had gone thudding against the hull. Ten seconds of suspense ended with a gruff:
“Who’s there?” and the sudden flash of a brilliant electric torch which brought the two girls out in bold relief.
At once there followed exclamations of astonishment as dark figures crowded the deck above them.
“Trying to steal our boat,” said one.
“Ought to walk the plank,” came from another.
“Up with ’em!” said another, placing a foot on the top rung of the ladder.