Occasionally Jim brought the dory head to the wind and lay on his oars to rest. After all, human muscles, powerful as they may be, are not steel and india-rubber.
"Pretty rough, isn't it?" said he, at one of these intervals. "Seasick, old man? You look a little white around the gills."
Percy shook his head. The situation was too serious for seasickness. In spite of the jocularity of his words, Jim's voice sounded hollow. Both of them knew that it meant a hard fight to reach Tarpaulin.
Silence, gray and leaden as the misty sky, settled over the dory. Spurling was throwing all the strength he possessed into every stroke; Percy bailed continuously. It took considerably more than an hour to make the next mile and a half. A rainy haze, driving down from the north, had shrouded the island, and Brimstone Point was barely visible.
Jim's strokes were slower; they lacked their earlier force. His face showed the strain of the last hour. Uneasily Percy noted these signs of weariness.
"Tired, Jim?"
"Yes."
The brief monosyllable struck Percy with dismay. If Spurling's strength should give out, what would happen to the dory?
"Don't you want me to row awhile?"
"You can take her for a few minutes."