Then came the recall. A cluster of lanterns swung aloft bidding the boats return. They had barely started on the back track when a deep, sullen boom echoed across the water.
“By George! it’s time,” muttered the lieutenant in charge of the sailing launch. “The old man sees his mistake and he’s hurrying us up.” He added, aloud:
“Pull away, men. Bend to it. That’s the recall gun.”
“We know that all right,” said Clif to his seatmate. “It’s the recall gun, and it is not a minute too soon.”
Twelve oars dipped and rose in steady cadence, the dripping blades flashing with phosphorescent fire. Twelve sturdy backs were bent and twelve pairs of arms labored lustily, sending the launch from wave crest to wave crest like a thing of life.
Twinkling here and there were the lanterns of other boats, but the launch’s light had blown out.
The blackness of the night was appalling. It rested upon the water like a thick blanket. The men in the boats could hardly see the backs of those in front of them. The coxswains faced an impenetrable wall.
“Pull away!” again called out the lieutenant of the launch. “See if you can’t get more speed out of her, boys.”
He spoke coaxingly, trying to hide even from himself his intense anxiety.