Again they shouted in deafening chorus, casting fearful looks behind them, and in the silence a faint answering hail came from the shore. They shouted again like madmen, until listening intently they heard a boat’s keel grate on the beach, and then the welcome click of oars in the rowlocks.
“Make haste,” bawled Dobbs vociferously, as the boat came creeping out of the darkness. “W’y don’t you make ’aste?”
“Wot’s the row?” cried a voice from the boat.
“Gunpowder!” yelled the cook frantically; “there’s ten tons of it aboard just going to explode. Hurry up.”
The sound of the oars ceased and a startled murmur was heard from the boat; then an oar was pulled jerkily.
“They’re putting back,” said Jem suddenly. “I’m going to swim for it. Stand by to pick me up, mates,” he shouted, and lowering himself with a splash into the water struck out strongly towards them.
Dobbs, a poor swimmer, after a moment’s hesitation, followed his example.
“I can’t swim a stroke,” cried the cook, his teeth chattering.
The others, who were in the same predicament, leaned over the side, listening. The swimmers were invisible in the darkness, but their progress was easily followed by the noise they made. Jem was the first to be hauled on board, and a minute or two later the listeners on the schooner heard him assisting Dobbs. Then the sounds of strife, of thumps, and wicked words broke on their delighted ears.
“They’re coming back for us,” said the mate, taking a deep breath. “Well done, Jem.”