In ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the _Mary_, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it.
As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no; it would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. True there will be four against two; but what of it?
"I think we can manage them, Jack," he mutters through his teeth, "I'm good for two of them--the biggest and best."
"An' I t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin' care o' 'em, Captin."
"I know it. Keep to your oars till I give the word to drop them."
"They don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off."
"They shan't have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them. Don't fear the result. If the _Mary_ gets damaged I'll stand the expense of repairs."
"Ne'er a mind 'bout that, Captain. I'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to see the lot chestised--specially that big black fellow as did most o' the talkin'."
He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. When he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _Mary_ is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. Only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head.
Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. They only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before.
"Coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is--addressing Miss Wynn. "Tain't no use you tryin' to get away. I must ha' my kiss. So drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!"