“But you—” began Tom with an objection.
“Come on,” ordered the man, half harshly. “You want to keep the kid dry; don’t you?”
Then Tom understood, and with a grateful heart he moved up so that Jackie would not be so wet. The little fellow was breathing heavily now, and Tom knew that he was asleep.
“Well, Tom Fairfield,” remarked one of the sailors, “this is tough luck, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t be much worse, and yet there’s lots worse off then we are,” commented the other.
Tom looked at the sailors as the lightning flashed again. One he knew as Abe Fordam, and the other was Joe Weldon. They had been deck helpers, cargo shifters—doing any of the many things required on a steamer, and hardly sailors proper, for there were no sails to manipulate. Tom had made their acquaintance when he had requested them to pose for their pictures as they were coiling up an anchor chain one day on deck.
“How did you happen to get aboard this derelict?” he asked, getting into as comfortable a position as possible with his little burden.
“It sort of—happened,” replied Abe.
“We had lowered away the main lifeboat, with most of the passengers in it,” added Joe, “right after the second crash came, and then there wasn’t time to do much more. It was everyone for himself. Some of the men were cowards, too,” he added contemptuously.
“That’s what they were,” growled Abe. “They swamped one boat by all trying to crowd into her. Me and Joe here shifted for ourselves, and got aboard a life-raft that we slid down the sloping deck. We were better off than most, too.”