It is almost past believing, but unless my eyes were playing me false, there stood my old friend Cy Plummer of the Minetta, balancing a boat-hook in his hand. This aside, it would have required but a close glance at the wiry, strong-knit figures and the keen sharp-featured faces, for one who knew, to declare that they were no English press-gang bullies, but Yankee sailor-men.
I was trying to find my voice, which had left me in my astonishment, but the nobleman landlord did not notice my condition, and was still continuing his warning.
"Come no closer," he said. "At your peril. We have no pilot for you."
At the same time he drew from the breast of his coat a small double-barrelled pistol.
"Who are you and where do you come from?" put in De Rembolez.
There was evidently some consternation in the white boat at hearing the sound of English. The men were leaning forward preparing to take a stroke, and Plummer was evidently perplexed and at a loss what to do, when I found my tongue.
"Plummer! Cy Plummer! get me out of this," I cried.
We were so near by this time that our oars were almost touching, but the astonishment occasioned on both sides by my sudden outbreak seemed to paralyze all hands.
"Who in the name of Davy Jones are you?" Plummer questioned, quickly.