Pengelly ran
forward, leaping the thwarts, and fetched the tailor a rousing kick.
"Sit up!" he ordered, "and tell us if that's the orficer you spoke to
last night!"
The poor creature hoisted himself upon his thwart, looking as yellow
as a bad egg. "I--I think that's the man," said he, straining his
eyes, and dropped his head overside.
"Pull for your lives, boys," shouted Pengelly. And they did pull, to
the last man. They pulled so that they reached the frigate just as
the tender, having run up in the wind and fallen alongside, began
uncovering hatches.
Two officers were leaning overside and watching--and a couple of the
tender's crew were reaching down their arms into the hold. They were
lifting somebody through the hatchway, and the body they lifted clung
for a moment to the hatchway coaming, to steady itself.
"Sally!" screamed a voice from the gig.
The little officer in the stern of the tender cast a glance back at
the sound and knew the tailor at once. He must have owned sharp
sight, that man.
"Oh, you've come for your money, have you?" says he. And, looking up
at the two officers overhead, he salutes, saying: "We've made a tidy
haul, Sir--thanks to that man.
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