Swimming like rats, they made for the scow, scrambled on board her,
howked up the anchor stone and shot out the oars.
"They're off for the junk," cried Ginnell. "Faith, that was a clane
bit of work; look at thim rowin' as if the divil was after thim."
They were, literally, and now on board the junk they were hauling the
boat in, shaking out the lateen sail and dragging up the anchor as
though a hundred pair of hands were at work instead of twenty.
Then, as the huge sail bellied gently to the wind and the junk broke
the violet breeze shadow beyond the calm of the sheltered water, a
voice came over the sea, a voice like the clamour of a hundred gulls,
thin, rending, fierce as the sound of tearing calico.
"Shout away, me boys," said Ginnell. "You've got the shout and we've
got the boodle, and good day to ye."
III
He turned with the others to examine the contents of the sacks dropped
by the vanquished ones and lying amongst the rocks. They were old
gunny bags and they were stuffed with all sorts of rubbish and
valuables, musical instruments, bits of old metal, cabin curtains, and
even cans of bully beef--there was no sign of dollars.
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