We skirted the town, and finally came out on the shore near the harbour entrance. Here we could find some kind of craft, for there were numerous spongers and fishermen in the town.
Tim finally brought up on the beach and tried to get his bearings. There was nothing in sight that looked like a sailing craft, except a dim shadow out in the harbour which gave promise of being an able sloop, for the tapering line that went skyward seemed to describe a tall mast. We cast about to find some means of getting aboard without swimming, for the water looked black and forbidding, and the phosphorus flared weirdly in places, and gave rise to a belief in the presence of that ugly fish, the shark of the Bahama bank.
While we skirted the fringe of rippling waves, which flamed and sparkled as they rolled upon the beach, we heard the deep-mouthed baying of hounds.
“My God! I told you so,” said Tim.
“They’re a long way off yet,” I answered, surlily.
“A sailor ain’t much at running, ye know, an’ we haven’t all night to clear,” he answered.
“Well, you’ve forgotten your gait mighty sudden, then,” said I. “How about this morning?”
But Tim had struck into a quick trot, and I followed, for the deep, musical cry of those dogs was anything but nerve-steadying, sounding as it did through the darkness, when not a tree or house showed us a place of refuge. It was take to either a tree or water, and, as there were no trees, I made ready for a swim, willing to trust the hidden monsters below the surface rather than those of dry land.
After running for a few minutes toward the town, the cry of the hounds sounded louder. They were evidently upon our trail, and it would be but a few minutes before they would close with us, and then capture would be certain. It might be well if we were captured before the brutes seized us, for, judging from the size of the one we had killed, they would make things pretty hot if it came to a fight.
“Into the water!” panted Tim.