Are you sure you've got the right bearings?"
"As near as a man could off a shore with not a blasted pint to take his
bearings by."
There was a long silence again, broken only by the occasional dip of
oars, keeping the invisible boat-head to the sea.
"Take my word for it, lads, it's the last we'll see of that boat again,
or of Jack Cranch, or the captain's baby."
"It DOES look mighty queer that the painter should slip. Jack Cranch
ain't the man to tie a granny knot."
"Silence!" said the invisible leader. "Listen."
A hail, so faint and uncertain that it might have been the
long-deferred, far-off echo of their own, came from the sea, abreast of
them.
"It's the captain. He hasn't found anything, or he couldn't be so far
north. Hark!"
The hail was repeated again faintly, dreamily. To the seamen's trained
ears it seemed to have an intelligent significance, for the first voice
gravely responded, "Aye, aye!" and then said softly, "Oars."
The word was followed by a splash. The oars clicked sharply and
simultaneously in the rowlocks, then more faintly, then still fainter,
and then passed out into the darkness.
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