At once he set to work, and there being nothing else to use he took his hat and Carter's and baled with both hands.
This exercise warmed him, and started his blood and pulse going once again.
When the water had been put over the side, George wrung out the coats and drew the sail about his shoulders. But first he found the letter that had caused all the trouble. It was addressed, "To the Convention at White Plains," and in the corner was inscribed, "A plan to destroy the British fleet by means of floating barrels of gunpowder, suggested by Mason Hewes, Colonel III. N. J., Reg't of Foot."
"One of the Colonel's schemes," said George to himself. But this did not seem so important as a memorandum in Carter's hand, made on a slip of paper, and showing the disposition of the American forces on Long Island.
He tore up the latter, but Colonel Hewes's address to the convention he attached to a bit of iron that he found, ready at a moment's notice to drop it overboard.
"I haven't the least idea where I am," he remarked, "so I had best be content with being alive. Oh, if this abominable fog would only clear away!"
It had been quite late in the afternoon when the boys had left the little cove at the foot of Brooklyn Heights, and now the light that filtered through the mist was growing dimmer. The ebb was still on, for the boat was drifting slowly. Another half-hour passed.
"What is that?" exclaimed George, suddenly, for a lapping sound came to his ears; it was the noise of the little tide waves against the prow of a vessel at anchor—he had heard it often along the wharves. As he peered out with his face over the side he heard loud and distinct, almost above him, the rattle and click of a block and tackle.
"'Vast 'eeaving there," called out a voice, so close that George started. "Belay, you lubbers," called the voice again.