“He sees the Gullwing’s boat,” I thought.
“Pull, you fellows!” he suddenly barked at us. “Why don’t you pull?”
And we were pulling. I could stand the pace for a bit longer, I thought; but the stroke was certainly bending his back and driving his oar with a vigor that left little more to be expected from mortal man.
“Pull!” yelled our mate. “Pull, or those lubbers will beat you to it.”
There was no feathering of oars, or any fancy work. This was just the hard, deep pull of the deep-sea oarsman. We breathed heavily; the sweat poured from our limbs; we neither spoke nor looked back over our shoulders now. We became veritable pieces of mechanism, set to do this certain stroke, and to do it until we broke down completely!
“Keep it up! Break your backs!” yelled the second mate.
I had an idea that there was an added incentive for Mr. Barney’s excitement. His twin brother more than likely commanded the boat from the Gullwing. But we at the oars could not see her yet.
Nearer and nearer we came to the drifting boat. Our craft sprang through the sea at the end of every stroke. Had one of the oars broken I believe we would have been capsized.
Once more I glanced around. Not a sign of life in that floating mystery with its signal floating from the broken mast. But there was a bit of canvas spread forward of that mast, like an awning.
Mr. Barney saw me look back and he swore at me good and plenty.