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"Bother him and his bullyings and threats," cried Aleck. "Such insolence! But, there, I must see about my paper and get back." Left alone in the boat, Tom Bodger sat down on one of the thwarts with his wooden pegs stuck straight out before him.
As a rule there were fishermen hanging over the rail on the top of the cliff a couple of hundred yards or so away, men busy with trawl or seine net on the smacks and luggers, and a score or two of boys playing about somewhere on the pier; but there was, as Tom Bodger had said, something going on in the town, and as soon as those ashore had done watching the man-o'-war's men and seen them row off, there was a steady human current setting away from the harbour, and not a listening ear to catch the sailor's hails and pass the word on for help, as he hung on to the boat's rope with all his might, feeling assured that if he slacked his efforts she would glide off the slimy stone and go to the bottom.
I don't like them, and they don't like me." "Of course you don't like the young scoundrels, sir; but they can manage a boat." "I'd rather not go now, uncle," said the boy, sadly. "And I'd rather you did. There, go at once, while the weather's fine, and make that old man-o'-war's man help you to come back?" "Tom Bodger, uncle? But how's he to get back?"
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