I’m going to keep you all from drowning, Jenny. That’s (Damn to hell, Pete whispered) why I’m going.
Aw, come on, Mark; earn your board and keep
Oooo, hold the boat still, Dawson.
Come on, come on. Say, where’s Pete?
Pete!
Pete! (Feet on the deck.)
Pete! Oh, Pete! (At the companionway.) Pete! (Jesus Christ, Pete whispered, making no sound.)
Never mind, Eva. We’ve got a boatload now. If anybody else comes, they’ll have to walk.
There’s somebody missing yet. Who is it?
Ah, we’ve got enough. Come on.
But somebody ain’t here. I don’t guess he fell overboard while we were not looking, do you?
Oh, come on and let’s go. Shove off, you Talliaferro (a scream).
Look out, there: catch her! Y’all right, Jenny? Let’s go, then. Careful, now.
Ooooooo!
“Damn to hell, she’s with ’em,” Pete whispered again, trying to see through the port. More thumping, and presently the tender came jerkily and lethargically into sight, loaded to the gunwales like a nigger excursion. Yes, Jenny was in it, and Mrs. Wiseman and five men, including Mr. Talliaferro. Mrs. Maurier leaned over the rail above Pete’s head, waving her handkerchief and shrieking at them as the tender drew uncertainly away, trailing a rope behind it. Almost every one had an oar: the small boat bristled with oars beating the water vainly, so that it resembled a tarantula with palsy and no knee joints. But they finally began to get the knack of it and gradually the boat began to assume something like a
