The grating sound made by a boat thrust out from a shingle beach came to their ears above the whispering of the tide. A ghostly figure in the dim light, George Martin clambered into his craft and took to the oars.
“If he’s for the Greenwich bank,” said Seton grimly, “he has a stiff task.”
But for the Greenwich bank the boat was headed; and pulling mightily against the current, the man struck out into mid-stream. They watched him for some time, silently, noting how he fought against the tide, sturdily heading for the point at which the signal had shown. Then:
“What do you suggest?” asked Seton. “He may follow the Surrey bank up-stream.”
“I suggest,” said Kerry, “that we drift. Once in Limehouse Reach we’ll hear him. There are no pleasure parties punting about that stretch.”
“Let us pull out, then. I propose that we wait for him at some convenient point between the West India Dock and Limehouse Basin.”
“Good,” rapped Kerry, thrusting the boat out into the fierce current. “You may have spent a long time in the East, sir, but you’re fairly wise on the geography of the lower Thames.”
Gripped in the strongly running tide they were borne smoothly up-stream, using the oars merely for the purpose of steering. The gloomy mystery of the London river claimed them and imposed silence upon them, until familiar landmarks told of the northern bend of the Thames, and the light above the Lavender Pond shone out upon the unctuously moving water.
Each pulling a scull they headed in for the left bank.
“There’s a wharf ahead,” said Seton, looking back over his shoulder. “If we put in beside it we can wait there unobserved.”