Brandon crept noiselessly up the steps at this command, and peered out across the deck. A sailor sat on the rail some rods away, but his back was towards him; nobody else was in sight.
“Now’s my chance,” muttered Don, and springing quickly up the remaining steps, he darted as noiselessly as a shadow across the deck, and leaped upon the pier. An instant later he was on the street, and slinking along in the shadow of the buildings, hurried away from the vicinity.
He did not know in which direction the “funny boat” Milly had seen, lay, but went blindly along, his only care for the moment being to escape from the neighborhood of the Success and from his enemy, Jim Leroyd.
The street he followed kept close to the wharves—skirted the waterfront in fact—and he passed many sailors; but he kept in the shadow as much as possible and nobody remarked about his apparel or the grime on his face and hands.
Suddenly, as he approached a great pier, where several large vessels were lying, he caught sight of a familiar figure coming down the street toward him. There was no mistaking that rolling, peculiar gait, nor the sound of the sharp “tap, tap” of the steel shod leg on the wooden pavement.
It was Caleb Wetherbee!
“Oh, Cale!” Brandon almost shouted, and running forward fairly threw himself into the sailor’s arms.
“By the jumping Jehosophat!” cried the startled Caleb, and then, recognizing the boy, despite his rags and dirt, he uttered a loud “hurrah!” which left no doubt in Brandon’s mind as to the sailor’s satisfaction at seeing him once more.
But in a moment, he pushed the boy away from him and holding him by both shoulders, peered down upon him curiously.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Where in the name o’ Davy Jones have you been? Ye look as though you’d been stowed away in the hold o’ a coal barge for a month.”