“Take me off, stop and take me off—Master Coleson, it’s Jim!” he shouted. There was no answer. The white boat, as he reported in low tones, between hails, was slowing up, and coming closer, losing way—stopping. Jim, to carry out his part, sprang down from the cabin.
Cliff, Sam and Jack crouched; they were no longer able to tell what was happening, but they knew that Jim would call out “Bless you for saving me!” if he got aboard and then they could act quickly, knowing that the boat would be opposite their end of the cabin.
Instead, another voice came, loud and clear.
“We’ll see about taking you off; we’re stopping! We need gas.”
“How’d you get gas?” asked Jim, from the deck rail. “You ain’t got no way to pump it from one tank to the other!”
“Yes we have,” called the voice. Cliff thought it sounded like Tew. “We got a hose rigged to our bilge pump, and we’ll pump with that.”
The white boat scraped along the Senorita’s tilted side, and men swarmed over onto her deck; the crouching three heard their boots scrabble, thud and clump about. They were forward, and Jim had run along the forward end of the craft to continue his talk. The after end of the Senorita was, therefore, beyond the after rail of the shorter boat.
Cliff inched his way around the aft side of the cabin until he could peer forward, taking a big chance, but feeling that he must see.
Jack, and Sam, creeping close behind him, waited in suspense.
Cliff took a swift peep and ducked back.