“‘Aye, aye,’ says I, bein’ by natcher a sailor. This ’ere tickles Jem Banks an’ ’e tikes me along of ’im an’ next thing ’ere I are cabin boy aboard the H.M.S. Bull’ark.”
“How long did you stay in the navy?” asked Ray.
“Till I gits t’ be a real A.B. When I’m a lad habout twenty I tikes hit hin me ’ead t’ try an adwenture ’er two, so seein’ as ’ow I’d served me time I hups an’ leaves an’ ships aboard t’ Jenney Lee, what is a ship as is runnin’ hof t’ bloccade hin Caroliney durin’ t’ Civil War. But we ain’t run ’em more’n twict when sinked we are be t’ U.S.S. New ’Ampshire an’ hin t’ fracus me laig’s shot hoff.
“Well, now, they ain’t much more to tell, exceptin’ as ’ow I was taken pris’ner o’ war an’ such like an’ nigh got ’ung fer me bein’ a bloccade runner, hafter I comes hout of the ’orspital wi’ me timber laig. Hafter t’ war I gets hup north ’ere ’mongst t’ fishermen, an’ drifted from one thing to t’other till ’ere I are ’igh an’ dry hon ’Ood Hisland, makin’ of a fair livin’ wi’ me lobster pots, where I been t’ last twenty years.”
“You certainly have had an interesting time of it,” said Jack enthusiastically.
“I guess he has,” added Ray. “I wonder how I’ll come out without my uncle or any one to—By George, I plum forgot we were running away from him. Look, look, he’s picked up a lot. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, can we make the island ahead of him?”
In truth, all three had forgotten the chase for the time and in the meanwhile the yawl had been gaining at every mile.
“Blow me, hif I didn’t fergit habout hit, too. My heye, but ’e’s got a sailboat fer ’e an’ a sailor at ’er wheel too. Come, shake a leg, Betsy Hanne. There’s t’ hisland ower there. Bout four miles t’ go. Ye gotta ’op along, me Betsy. An’ hit’s startin’ t’ rain an’ blow a little, hin t’ bargain.”
From then on the boys were too much worried about the swiftly flying yawl to think of conversation. Ray’s uncle had every inch of canvas set and the swift swordfisherman was plowing through the water at top speed. But the Betsy Anne was making time, too. With the wind off her port quarter and all sails set, she was heeling low and making the water boil under her sharp little bow. On and on she raced, dashing spray over her crew as she cut her way through the big seas that were being kicked up by the ever freshening wind.
But in spite of the little boat’s good time, Old Mitchell was plainly worried over the outcome of the race.