Part 62 (1/2)

”Oh, by climbing up, father, a bit at a time, getting hold of the bushes and hauling oneself up sometimes.”

”Ah,” said the skipper quietly. ”You would be very clever if you did.

It might be managed for a little way up, but all that upper part isn't perpendicular; it hangs right over towards us. Impossible, my lad.

Nothing could get up there but a bird or a fly. We must give up that idea. Burgess, you will have to lower a boat and let her drift down to the headland there, stern on, and with the men ready to pull for their lives, as you may be fired at. When you get to the head you must let her slide along close under the bushes till you get a sight of the boats and see what they're doing.”

”Right,” said the mate. ”Now?”

”Yes; the sooner the better.”

Poole glanced at Fitz, and then started to speak to his father; but before he could open his lips there was an emphatic--

”No! You would only be in the way, my lads. I want four strong men to row, and one in the stern to look out; and that one is Mr Burgess.”

”Very well, father,” said the lad quietly, but he looked his disappointment at Fitz, whose vexation was plainly marked on his countenance, as he mentally said, ”Oh, bother! He might have let us go.”

Things were done promptly on board the _Teal_, and in a few moments the cutter was lowered down with its little crew after the netting had been cast loose and raised; and then they watched her glide down with the stream, stern on, with the rowers balancing their oars, the stroke dipping his now and then to keep her head to stream, and the mate standing with his back to them till the headland was reached, when he knelt down, caught at the overhanging bushes and water-plants, and let the boat drift close in and on and on without making a sign, till she disappeared.

Just then Fitz heaved a sigh.

”What's the matter, old chap?” said Poole.

”Oh, we shall have nothing to do but wait now, perhaps for hours, for I expect the enemy has gone right back to the gunboat, and waiting is a thing I do thoroughly hate. Eh? Is that you, Camel?”

”Andy Cawmell it is, sir. A'm thenking that it would be joost a good time for a wee bit food. Ah've been watching Mr Burnett here, and the puir laddie looks quite white and faint. Would you mind telling the skipper that I've got a wee bit hot dinner a' ready? and if he will gi'e the word I'll have it in the cabin in less time than Duncan Made-Hose took his pinch of snees.h.i.+n.”

”Well done, Camel!” cried Poole, who darted to his father, leaving the cook blinking and smiling at Fitz, who looked at him in admiration.

”Why, Camel,” he said, ”you are a deal too clever for a s.h.i.+p's cook, and I don't know what I owe you for all you have done for me.”

”Oh, joost naething at all, laddie.”

”Nothing! I want to make you a big present when I can.”

”You do, laddie? Vairy weel, and I'll tell you what I'd like. Ye'll just gi'e me one of them quarter-poond tins of Glasgie snees.h.i.+n.”

”Snuff!” said Poole contemptuously. ”Ay, laddie; snuff, as ye call it.

Nay, don't turn your nose up at snees.h.i.+n. Ye should turn it down.

Thenk of what it is to a man condemned to get naething but a bit of dirty black pigtail tobaccy that he has to chew like the lads do in their barbarous way. Ye'll mind that: a four-ounce tin of the rale Glasgie.”

”Oh, but--”

”Nay, nay, laddie. That'll make us square. Now then, what's the young skipper got to say?”

”The sooner the better, Camel, for he's half-starved; but you are to keep a bit hot for Mr Burgess.”

”Ou, ay,” said the Camel, smiling. ”I never forget the mate. He wadna let me if I would.”