Left to himself, Harrington, with his body bent low, ran swiftly over the wet, coarse grass, past the dark bulk of the silent house, in the outbuilding of which a dim lamp glimmered, and toward the wooden pier. The lightning blazed rosy-purple as he was midway, and fearful of being seen, he dropped prone. The next instant he rose in darkness, and ran on. Presently he approached the pier, and dropping on his hands and knees, he crept down to it, and vaguely saw the two boats, schooner-rigged, and both secured to the wharf at the foot of a short ladder running down to the water. Sinking still lower, he crept to the edge of the wharf, lay flat, and gazed at the boats, through the dense darkness, with straining eyes. In a moment the lightning flashed again, and he saw a single man standing in one of the vessels, looking out to sea, with his back to him, and his hands in the pockets of a sou’wester. At a glance, Harrington knew, by the look of his figure, that he was a sailor, and overjoyed that he had but one to deal with, he instantly rose, drew his pistol from his breast, put on his hat, and with a noiseless step glided down the pier to the ladder.
The man turned just as he was within two or three yards of it, and saw him.
“Oh, it’s one o’ ye at last,” he growled, mistaking him for a comrade. “Egod, it’s about time for some o’ ye to bear a hand in this dog’s watch I’ve had of it.”
Harrington’s answer was to swing himself from the top of the ladder into the boat, which rocked beneath him. At that instant the lightning shook out in vivid rose and purple, illuminating his stern bearded face and stalwart form, and the man, burly fellow though he was, started violently.
“Who are you? What d’ye want here?” he demanded.
“I want that negro in the cuddy. Hurry!” said Harrington, abruptly.
The man clapped his hand to his waist for his knife. Harrington clutched his throat, and held the pistol to his temple.
“Take your hand from that knife or I’ll shoot you,” he said, sternly.