Again and again the sail broke away from the clawing hands, staining itself red with the blood from torn finger-nails and skinned knuckles, until at last they got a firm hold.
Up it came, inch by inch; their arms groaned under the strain, their curved fingers throbbed with fiery pains—still with gritted teeth, they hung on.
Bending over, Jack drove his strong teeth into the sail where his left hand had a grip; then with the weight on his jaw, he shifted his hand and groped for the bunt gasket, whilst Hank hurled furious profanity at the frightened gambler, who was hanging on to the jackstay to leeward, terrified, half-demented, quite useless.
The card-sharper made no attempt to move from his position, and whilst Jack and Broncho passed the bunt gasket, Hank slid out along the footrope and, grasping the jackstay with his left hand, hit fiercely with his right at the face of the shirker.
There is a grim work sometimes aloft in the raging of a gale, the work of heated blood and feelings overwrought by the cruel stress of the moment.
The gambler flinched from the vicious blows and whimpered miserably.
"The cur's no use, anyhow!" shouted Jack disdainfully, but Hank in his mad rage heeded him not.
At last the sail was overcome; they swung themselves into the rigging and slowly descended, struggling against the fury of the wind.
Each gust pinned them down as if spreadeagled, and it was a work of difficulty and arduous labour shifting their feet from one ratline to another. When they reached the deck they were streaming with perspiration and nearly dead beat with their terrific exertions, but the keen, chilly wind soon put new life into them. Paying no heed to the buffeting of the storm, the flying spume, or the pattering hail, they hastily hauled themselves along the weather rail in the pitch darkness, knowing by long experience of night work the geography of the ship.
They found the rest of the crew gathered round the main fife-rail, about to haul up the main course.