“He's goin' ashore,” whispered Harper. Ole nodded. “He's beckonin' for us—say, Ole, shall we go?”
But the Swede started promptly aft. The habit of obedience is so strong in a well-dis-posed sailor that only great provocation will overthrow it. With but a moment's hesitation, Harper followed.
“Climb down there,” said the mate; “and mind you're quiet about it.”
Down they went; McGlory came after and took the rudder; and, propelled by two pairs of oars, the boat slipped away, crossed a patch of moonlight, and entered the mysterious region of shadows.
“Way enough—easy now!”
They literally could not distinguish the shore—it was all distorted, unnatural. They dragged the oars in the water and looked over their shoulders. Linding was in the bow with a long boat-hook ready in his hands. Then they found themselves floating quietly alongside a narrow landing pier, and it was necessary to tumble in the oars in a hurry.
Linding checked the boat's headway, the others reached out and caught the planking with their hands; and McGlory stepped out.
“Make her fast,” he said, “and come ashore.”
They obeyed.
“Now, boys,”—he seemed of a sudden to be making an attempt at good-nature,—“I want you to wait here for me. I 'll be back in five minutes.” And walking along a path that mounted the bluff, he left them standing there.