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"Now for it, Mas' Don," | Jem Wimble | light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's | shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going | felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, | seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" | sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" | by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence | a hail about a hundred yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save | by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.<|quote|>"Now for it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows | Don Lavington |
whispered Jem; | No speaker | "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, | light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win | their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's | he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. | if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a | hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the | yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, | giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the | Don Lavington |
"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." | Jem Wimble | it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to | by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let | Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; | below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order | had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, | sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. | and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner | who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."</|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I | Don Lavington |
"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," | Don Lavington | steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, | sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems | parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see | SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of | If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying | pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There | and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished | last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."<|quote|>"They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes | Don Lavington |
whispered Don. | No speaker | to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. | and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of | into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. | almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows | disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." | service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a | gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. | deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem,"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; | Don Lavington |
"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." | Jem Wimble | to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered | together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily | faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets | into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the | it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the | this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to | don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you | all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.<|quote|>"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."</|quote|>"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; | Don Lavington |
"Can they see us?" | Don Lavington | I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam | Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe | cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. | the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, | his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the | again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving | in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." | and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."<|quote|>"Can they see us?"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, | Don Lavington |
whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. | No speaker | clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, | wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, | Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said | round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't | his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang | captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. | "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one | his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.</|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill | Don Lavington |
"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." | Jem Wimble | as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. | they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he | long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim | of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, | as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but | deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," | about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy | to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.<|quote|>"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."</|quote|>"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of | Don Lavington |
"Ah! Look out!" | Don Lavington | if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" | us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking | a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said | it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" | and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is | focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I | A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; | bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."<|quote|>"Ah! Look out!"</|quote|>whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I | Don Lavington |
whispered Don. | No speaker | a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he | be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the | and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as | whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a | he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" | he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all | followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can | night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!"<|quote|>whispered Don.</|quote|>"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill | Don Lavington |
"Shall we dive?" | Don Lavington | "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking | if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they | my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back | "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, | below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, | sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for | declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's | "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don.<|quote|>"Shall we dive?"</|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so | Don Lavington |
For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. | No speaker | whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that | a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he | don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, | a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless | but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where | one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. | captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There | flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"<|quote|>For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.</|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost | Don Lavington |
"Well, I do call that cowardly," | Jem Wimble | muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard | heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting | whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They | Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We | to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash | he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their | dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, | feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.<|quote|>"Well, I do call that cowardly,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent | Don Lavington |
said Jem, as he heard the order to load; | No speaker | I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of | as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if | on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't | sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the | escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see | with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we | made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to | the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he heard the order to load;</|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, | Don Lavington |
"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." | Jem Wimble | heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, | cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over | they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" | to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" | FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be | saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as | the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel | to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load;<|quote|>"shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."</|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't | Don Lavington |
"Swim faster, Jem," | Don Lavington | if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed | of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at | boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are | seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," | the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see | regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," | to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd | them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."<|quote|>"Swim faster, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. | Don Lavington |
said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. | No speaker | wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my | just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; | out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, | me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of | in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. | canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, | scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, | came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.</|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was | Don Lavington |
"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" | Jem Wimble | as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not | his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my | fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" | us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; | looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was | last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy | I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, | in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.<|quote|>"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"</|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." | Don Lavington |
"No, Jem; are you?" | Don Lavington | Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, | would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go | "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said | boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is | for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence | "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, | aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go | this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"<|quote|>"No, Jem; are you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that | Don Lavington |
"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." | Jem Wimble | you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out | us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," | Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes | whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. | whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a | if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and | to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; | deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."</|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had | Don Lavington |
"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" | Don Lavington | up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, | rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his | hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; | just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be | "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from | it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once | up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a | it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."<|quote|>"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"</|quote|>"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, | Don Lavington |
"Shore, of course," | Jem Wimble | Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam | carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept | "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where | "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see | seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, | The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise | very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. | reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"<|quote|>"Shore, of course,"</|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; | Don Lavington |
said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. | No speaker | to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't | "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if | you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they | said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, | me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, | his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, | were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much | muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course,"<|quote|>said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, | Don Lavington |
"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" | Jem Wimble | faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" | kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat | boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't | swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as | Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, | lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no | the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap | of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"</|quote|>"What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my | Don Lavington |
"What made you say that?" | Don Lavington | they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat | they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; | the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights | don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and | if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes | flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." | them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; | the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"<|quote|>"What made you say that?"</|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. | Don Lavington |
"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" | Jem Wimble | "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is | they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, | carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't | would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks | see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going | glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make | captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates | their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?"<|quote|>"Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"</|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The | Don Lavington |
"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" | Don Lavington | boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began | that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he | sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." | you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the | a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all | seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing | report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I | that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?"<|quote|>"Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"</|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands | Don Lavington |
Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. | No speaker | the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't | us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights | he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash | bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed | "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much | below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, | sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, | only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<|quote|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's | Don Lavington |
"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." | Jem Wimble | water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing | where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans | they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the | ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of | he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as | Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had | sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so | "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.<|quote|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."</|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought | Don Lavington |
They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. | No speaker | to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost | ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense | Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered | he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be | he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, | Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner | to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, | round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."<|quote|>They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.</|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, | Don Lavington |
But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. | No speaker | seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," | through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; | as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns | Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered | and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that | "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one | pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's | sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.<|quote|>But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.</|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last | Don Lavington |
"Better not talk, Mas' Don," | Jem Wimble | pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; | the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over | times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you | the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our | us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't | "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off | deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking | "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.<|quote|>"Better not talk, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in | Don Lavington |
whispered Jem, as they swam; | No speaker | "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over | pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not | energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see | boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and | ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, | sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there | search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, | Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem, as they swam;</|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow | Don Lavington |
"sound goes so easily over the water." | Jem Wimble | whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to | "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want | almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see | water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, | say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, | they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you | to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live | they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam;<|quote|>"sound goes so easily over the water."</|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and | Don Lavington |
"No, I'm not going to talk," | Don Lavington | so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all | as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't | freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if | oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about | after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." | surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy | fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had | whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."<|quote|>"No, I'm not going to talk,"</|quote|>said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their | Don Lavington |
said Don; | No speaker | I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath | easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, | ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," | in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." | the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking | "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, | focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to | ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk,"<|quote|>said Don;</|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My | Don Lavington |
"I want all my breath for swimming." | Don Lavington | going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" | the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, | in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man | silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on | is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us | out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another | glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said | "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don;<|quote|>"I want all my breath for swimming."</|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes | Don Lavington |
"Don't feel tired, do you?" | Jem Wimble | all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, | talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady | of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows | ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd | began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where | he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, | doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, | got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."<|quote|>"Don't feel tired, do you?"</|quote|>"Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like | Don Lavington |
"Not a bit." | Don Lavington | "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to | all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns | able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of | plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick | he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" | the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must | and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother | after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?"<|quote|>"Not a bit."</|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take | Don Lavington |
"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." | Jem Wimble | do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if | for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as | the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that | the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the | the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept | they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' | to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I | us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit."<|quote|>"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."</|quote|>"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can | Don Lavington |
"But it seems as if they could," | Don Lavington | but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw | can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in | I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." | in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise | ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so | they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd | "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing | keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."<|quote|>"But it seems as if they could,"</|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by | Don Lavington |
whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. | No speaker | seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but | can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out | "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward | in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows | no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if | said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. | canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, | a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could,"<|quote|>whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.</|quote|>"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're | Don Lavington |
"Yes, seems," | Jem Wimble | holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only | of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, | like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, | through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But | the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had | lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried | great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, | canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.<|quote|>"Yes, seems,"</|quote|>whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're | Don Lavington |
whispered Jem; | No speaker | lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads | of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only | lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to | water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise | even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a | can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." | "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My | a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems,"<|quote|>whispered Jem;</|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we | Don Lavington |
"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." | Jem Wimble | high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." | boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I | much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise | not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking | plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, | us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could | don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall | long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem;<|quote|>"but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."</|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last | Don Lavington |
"No, Jem; she's somewhere about." | Don Lavington | been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I | sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick | whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the | "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley | silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, | you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another | as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep | sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."<|quote|>"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."</|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't | Don Lavington |
"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." | Jem Wimble | "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward | been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the | a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his | for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, | to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily | it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the | to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried | it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about."<|quote|>"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."</|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I | Don Lavington |
They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. | No speaker | come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious | it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's | holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as | lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off | dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily | unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great | haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to | if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."<|quote|>They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.</|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval | Don Lavington |
All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. | No speaker | and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he | the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said | ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing | it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had | being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first | out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes | attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and | "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.<|quote|>All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.</|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem | Don Lavington |
"What's the matter, Jem?" | Don Lavington | curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" | ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his | somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us | they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise | the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. | he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as | a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another | The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.<|quote|>"What's the matter, Jem?"</|quote|>he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; | Don Lavington |
he whispered, in alarm. | No speaker | ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to | a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I | it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder | standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their | of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he | side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what | walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout | their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?"<|quote|>he whispered, in alarm.</|quote|>"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did | Don Lavington |
"Matter?" | Jem Wimble | Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his | Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows | she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where | bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position | being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, | eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm | Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being | but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.<|quote|>"Matter?"</|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and | Don Lavington |
said Jem, greatly to his relief. | No speaker | he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." | ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" | come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; | of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to | able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." | on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's | stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a | sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?"<|quote|>said Jem, greatly to his relief.</|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just | Don Lavington |
"Nothing, as I knows on." | Don Lavington | Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" | whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." | swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! | a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there | swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I | ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, | his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head | as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief.<|quote|>"Nothing, as I knows on."</|quote|>"But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean | Don Lavington |
"But that noise you made?" | Jem Wimble | "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." | Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, | shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my | seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming | the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats | won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there | before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don | lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."<|quote|>"But that noise you made?"</|quote|>"I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs | Don Lavington |
"I didn't make no noise." | Don Lavington | "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, | "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so | of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is | only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering | Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. | if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it | rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam | the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?"<|quote|>"I didn't make no noise."</|quote|>"You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." | Don Lavington |
"You did, just now." | Jem Wimble | "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, | "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no | alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, | water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed | they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, | made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; | of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the | plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise."<|quote|>"You did, just now."</|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' | Don Lavington |
"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." | Don Lavington | noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing | made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in | the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, | tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was | so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy | "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to | glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem | us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now."<|quote|>"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."</|quote|>"Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like | Don Lavington |
"Oh!" | Jem Wimble | as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a | I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the | curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and | the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly | said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." | the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such | and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam | freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."<|quote|>"Oh!"</|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he | Don Lavington |
"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" | Don Lavington | to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may | was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper | noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through | canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, | Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must | canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. | gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. | said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!"<|quote|>"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"</|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed | Don Lavington |
"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." | Jem Wimble | Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, | at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats | to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if | us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat | "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of | the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of | as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; | my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"<|quote|>"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."</|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap | Don Lavington |
"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." | Jem Wimble | Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off | the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and | on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have | the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to | like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem | water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising | chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if | my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."<|quote|>"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."</|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" | Don Lavington |
The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. | No speaker | long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on | Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem | was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." | and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke | they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; | ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. | simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed | talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."<|quote|>The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.</|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and | Don Lavington |
But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. | No speaker | where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, | manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, | its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another | excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I | those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as | sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery | "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under | come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.<|quote|>But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over | Don Lavington |
"Say, Mas' Don," | Jem Wimble | first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear | time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought | swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in | the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as | he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's | of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." | I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's | on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as | Don Lavington |
he whispered, | No speaker | the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, | being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. | the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, | their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as | alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm | in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, | hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, | they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he whispered,</|quote|>"did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it | Don Lavington |
"did you hear oars?" | Jem Wimble | "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I | first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of | and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be | in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly | said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you | able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you | any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose | comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered,<|quote|>"did you hear oars?"</|quote|>"No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep | Don Lavington |
"No, Jem." | Don Lavington | whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I | silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats | easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There | darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but | his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's | long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If | see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he | ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"<|quote|>"No, Jem."</|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give | Don Lavington |
"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" | Jem Wimble | you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, | Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of | by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and | land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther | "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem | swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I | whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good | them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem."<|quote|>"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"</|quote|>"Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem | Don Lavington |
"Yes, I think so." | Don Lavington | a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two | the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, | he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke | seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and | now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you | goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I | won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but | There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"<|quote|>"Yes, I think so."</|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is | Don Lavington |
"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." | Jem Wimble | three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." | without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about | But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if | its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. | a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such | the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty | Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. | for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so."<|quote|>"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."</|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not | Don Lavington |
"Yes, Jem; I can see." | Don Lavington | two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about | so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we | Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' | calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about | "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must | Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen | Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? | boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."<|quote|>"Yes, Jem; I can see."</|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always | Don Lavington |
"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." | Jem Wimble | "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of | two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they | break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, | pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the | volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it | breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always | we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. | "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see."<|quote|>"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."</|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, | Don Lavington |
There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. | No speaker | so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you | cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like | Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the | mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but | Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in | lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her | fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are | plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."<|quote|>There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.</|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got | Don Lavington |
"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" | Jem Wimble | at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as | nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're | you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another | they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and | had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold | see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. | as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do | swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.<|quote|>"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"</|quote|>"No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and | Don Lavington |
"No." | Don Lavington | like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry | you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly | there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. | the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow | to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill | a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm | back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, | plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come | Don Lavington |
"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." | Jem Wimble | a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the | feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther | another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, | silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if | realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they | man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My | over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you | a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No."<|quote|>"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."</|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, | Don Lavington |
They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. | No speaker | bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could | there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another | they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance | the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you | canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs | "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If | us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't | alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."<|quote|>They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.</|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don | Don Lavington |
"Getting tired, Jem?" | Don Lavington | the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for | farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" | you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time | of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to | the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I | been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over | are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, | noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.<|quote|>"Getting tired, Jem?"</|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but | Don Lavington |
"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" | Jem Wimble | distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. | ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" | if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you | like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, | perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, | the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I | Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as | plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?"<|quote|>"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"</|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. | Don Lavington |
"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" | Don Lavington | about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach | "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't | I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's | about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much | currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes | but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, | There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, | power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"<|quote|>"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"</|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but | Don Lavington |
"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." | Jem Wimble | Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, | "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much | I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and | was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on | by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. | swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to | a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore | noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"<|quote|>"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."</|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem | Don Lavington |
"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" | Don Lavington | and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; | this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a | clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? | as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were | Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" | in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside | kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don | Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."<|quote|>"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"</|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use | Don Lavington |
"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." | Jem Wimble | you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with | what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. | see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold | touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don | I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to | I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the | Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses | of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?"<|quote|>"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."</|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being | Don Lavington |
Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. | No speaker | degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? | aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. | slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for | week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully | there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother | at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. | himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my | mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."<|quote|>Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.</|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath | Don Lavington |
"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." | Jem Wimble | unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much | Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising | you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw | see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," | be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run | "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, | the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred | Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.<|quote|>"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."</|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for | Don Lavington |
Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. | No speaker | arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a | indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," | a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. | how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' | get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel | Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of | my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They | and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."<|quote|>Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.</|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done | Don Lavington |
"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," | Jem Wimble | shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a | they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I | wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, | was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as | on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, | to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his | by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting | touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.<|quote|>"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with | Don Lavington |
he said calmly; | No speaker | little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out | "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make | raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're | if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could | ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." | have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam | dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, | said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>he said calmly;</|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must | Don Lavington |
"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." | Jem Wimble | Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and | shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem | the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a | talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen | ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to | occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better | the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say | swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly;<|quote|>"there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."</|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, | Don Lavington |
Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. | No speaker | as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, | runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, | cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' | speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't | another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants | pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, | distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I | a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."<|quote|>Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.</|quote|>"Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be | Don Lavington |
"Jem," | Don Lavington | now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' | upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my | "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your | wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run | tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of | an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. | chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should | was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.<|quote|>"Jem,"</|quote|>said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don | Don Lavington |
said Don, suddenly. | No speaker | deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it | his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting | your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? | Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that | how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats | imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over | his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going | Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem,"<|quote|>said Don, suddenly.</|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a | Don Lavington |
"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" | Jem Wimble | water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with | was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving | a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had | as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody | is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, | swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his | these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit | you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly.<|quote|>"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"</|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you | Don Lavington |
he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. | No speaker | there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." | my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I | think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. | and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming | like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to | longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. | ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried | without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!"<|quote|>he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.</|quote|>"Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, | Don Lavington |
"Jem." | Don Lavington | chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If | added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" | they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If | his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to | "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me | Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's | power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it | fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.<|quote|>"Jem."</|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your | Don Lavington |
"Ay, ay, Mas' Don." | Jem Wimble | of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I | to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, | swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my | own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, | what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll | he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. | in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and | "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem."<|quote|>"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."</|quote|>"If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as | Don Lavington |
"If you escape--" | Don Lavington | "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, | chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use | watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always | for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are | but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such | hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," | breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it | I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"If you escape--"</|quote|>"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, | Don Lavington |
"If I escape!" | Jem Wimble | Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's | unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking | eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even | that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. | it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside | Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's | heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself." "Oh, that's it, is it?" "And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now | in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait." Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread--not on his own account--ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before. "Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter." Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--"<|quote|>"If I escape!"</|quote|>whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my | Don Lavington |
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