"What shall we do with these fellows?" said Wat, looking up, disgustedly.
"Sink them with the boat," said Scarlett, promptly.
Wat shook his head. They lay so still and they looked so helpless—even the Killer, who had struck at Wat, was now resting his head on the thwart in perfect unconsciousness.
"We must get the drunken scoundrels ashore somehow," said Wat.
"We will tie them together with the rope, turn them over the side, and haul them ashore with the slack," said Scarlett; "and if it chance to break, why, so much the better." Without another word the master-at-arms set to work, packing the Calf and the Killer together as if they had been a couple of trussed chickens, exploring their pockets for plunder as he did so.
"Let the poor rascals' wallets alone, Jack!" cried Wat, indignantly.
"Nay, lad," quoth Scarlett, with imperturbable philosophy, possessing himself as he spoke of a clasp-knife and a flagon of strong waters, "the art of forage and requisition from the enemy is of the very essence of war, as the great Condé used often to say."
Presently Scarlett paid out the spare rope to Wat, who took it ashore with him. The bodies dropped without a splash into the water, and Wat, aided by the current, soon brought them to land and hauled them out of the water on to the pebbles. Then came Scarlett with a couple of balls of tow for plugging seams, which he thrust with gusto into their mouths.
"That will keep things safe," he said. "I trust neither of these good gentlemen is afflicted with a cold in his head, or else he might be liable to choke, and so find himself in warmer and drier quarters at his awaking!"
But the Calf and the Killer lay like brothers in each other's arms, breathing gently and equably.