Devon Boys Part 35

"Oh!" shrieked Bob, and I felt my cheeks burn, cold as I was.

"Now, will you come and work, you sneak?"

"I--I can't."

"Get up, or I'll come and heave you overboard," roared Bigley. "I won't have it."

"Oh--oh!" sobbed poor Bob.

"Let him be, Big," I cried. "I'm not very tired."

"You hold your tongue," was the response I had in an angry tone. "You be ready to give up your oar when he comes. Now, then, up with you, or I'll do it again."

Bob Chowne groaned piteously and crawled forward.

"Why can't you let a fellow die quietly?" he sobbed out, and then he crept over the seat where Bigley was rowing, so as to get to where I still tugged at my oar in hot indignation.

"Die, eh?" shouted Bigley with a forced laugh. "Yes, you'd better.

Leave us to do all the pulling, would you? Oh, no, you don't. I'm biggest and I'll make you pull."

"Oh--oh--oh!" whimpered Bob. "Why can't you let a poor fellow be?"

"Be! What for?" shouted Bigley to my astonishment, for I could not have believed him guilty of such brutality. "Yes, I'll let you be. I'll make you work, that's what I'll do. I wish I'd a rope's end here."

"It's too bad, it's too cruel, Big," I cried pa.s.sionately. "How can you behave so brutally to the poor fellow!"

"Here, you stick to your own work," cried Bigley fiercely. "Look, you're letting me do all the work. Keep her head to the wind, will you?"

His orders were so sharp and fierce that I found myself obeying them directly, and went on baling while Bob whimpered, and Bigley kept on hectoring over us, as I ladled out a little water now and then.

The wind blew as fiercely as ever, and we knew that we were rapidly being carried out farther and farther, right away to a certain extent towards the Welsh coast, but of course being also in the set of the tide, and going out to sea. The cold was terrible whenever we ceased pulling from utter weariness, but we managed among us to keep the boat's head to wind hour after hour, and danced over and over the waves till by degrees the fury of the wind died out, though we could not believe it at first. Soon, though, it become very evident that it was sinking, and I heard Bigley utter a sigh of relief.

It was quite time that the little gale did pa.s.s over, for during the last half hour the water had been coming into the boat more and more, so that it had become necessary for one of us to keep on baling, for the waves seemed to be getting more angry; a sharp rain of spray was dashed from their tops into our necks, and soaking our hair, and every now and again there was a blow, a splash, and a rush of water through the boat.

It was quite true, though we at first thought that we must be under shelter of the land; the wind was sinking fast, and the waves lost their fierce foaminess. They rose and fell, and leaped against the boat, but it was with less splash and fury, and then, as the danger died away, so did our remaining strength. Bigley and I, who were now rowing, or rather dipping our oars from time to time, slowly threw them in, and the boat lay tossing up and down at the mercy of the waves; but no water dashed in over the gunwale, and Bob Chowne's hand with the baler rested helplessly by his side.

No one spoke out there in the darkness, but we sat in the terrible silence, utterly exhausted, and rapidly growing chilled through and through in our saturated clothes. I remember looking out, and away through the darkness towards the sh.o.r.e as I thought, but I could see nothing till I raised my eyes toward the sky, and then I saw that the clouds had been driven away by the wind, and the stars were out, while straight before me there was the only constellation I knew--the Great Bear.

I was too weary for it to trouble me, but I learned then that the boat must have turned almost completely round since we had left off rowing, for where I had thought the land lay was out to sea, and the Welsh coast--in fact I had been looking due north instead of due south.

It did not trouble me much, for I was hungry and thirsty, and then I felt sleepy, and then shivering with cold, while a few minutes later I felt as if nothing mattered at all, for I was utterly wearied out.

Bigley was the first to speak, but it was not in the fierce tone of a short time before. He seemed to have changed back into our big mild school-fellow as he said:

"Come on over here, Sep, and let's all creep together. It won't be so cold then."

I noted the change in his tone, but I could not say anything, only obey him.

"Come, Bob," I said, as I climbed over the thwart, and tried to stand steadily in the dancing boat.

But Bob did not move or speak, and we others crept close to his side, beginning by edging up and leaning against each other, shivering the while, but the improvement was so great at the end of a few minutes, that we thrust our arms under each other's soaked jackets, and held on as closely as we could, to feel bitterly cold outside but comfortably warm on the inner.

The stars came out more and more, the wind died away, and the short dancing motion by very slow degrees subsided into a regular cradle-like rock, that, in spite of the cold, had a lulling effect upon us; and at last I seemed to be thinking of the miserable-looking mine in the Gap, and my father scolding me for going away without asking leave, and then everything seemed to be nothing, and nothing else.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

I suppose it was an uneasy movement made by Bob Chowne that awoke me, and as I started away, and looked round at the darkness, and felt the motion of the boat, I trembled, and could not for the time make out where I was, or what all this peculiar sensation of cramped stiffness meant.

The stars were shining, and twinkling reflections flashed from the water; the boat rocked to and fro, and the cold was horrible. This feeling of bitter cold or else the stupefied sensation brought on by exhaustion seemed to keep me from thinking, and it was a long time before I quite realised the truth.

Then I wanted to wake up Bigley and Bob Chowne, to get them to start rowing again, for the sea had gone down, there was hardly a breath of wind; and, though I could see nothing, I felt that the land could not be very far away.

I raised my hand to shake Bigley; but I did not, for the inclination was stronger to creep close up to him, and try to warm myself; and this I did, clinging closely to him and Bob Chowne; and then, as I crouched shivering and cramped in the bottom of the boat, I felt as if all the cold and darkness had suddenly sunk away and I was in oblivion.

I don't know how long I slept, but I remember starting up again and wondering why the boat was moving so curiously, and then I found that I was being shaken, and a hoa.r.s.e voice said:

"Sep! Sep! Wake up."

"What's matter?" I said drowsily.

"It's dark and cold, and we'd better begin to row again. The sea has gone down."

"Has it?" I said sleepily. "Never mind. It don't matter."

"Yes, it does. Wake up. I want to talk to you."

"No, no. Let me go--sleep," I said.

"I sha'n't. Wake up. Let you and me row for a bit, and then we'll make Bob. Come along."

Bigley half pushed me over the thwart to that in front, and placed the oar in my hands; then, taking the other, he thrust it in the rowlocks, and asked me if I was ready.

"Ready? No," I said angrily. "I want to lie down and sleep. I'm so cold. Let me lie down."

"But you can't," he said. "Now, then, let's row. It will warm you."

"But where are we to row?" I said dolefully, and with a curious sense of not caring what happened now.

"I'll show you. Look!" he cried, "you can see the north star."

"Bother the north star!" I grumbled. "I don't want to see the north star."

"But if we keep staring straight up at that as we go, we are sure to reach our sh.o.r.e--somewhere."

I yawned and shivered.