And now the Higgins flew upon the stranger with the swoop of an eagle.
All hands but the senseless helmsman gazed fascinated at the nearing peril, whilst the bosun scrambled hastily out of the mizzen rigging and made for the wheel.
But Jack had done his work. It was touch and go, but he had judged the distance exactly. As the Higgins surged past, her bow wave swamped the poop of the barque and poured over her rail.
The Scotchman was close enough to toss a biscuit aboard, and a weird chorus of yells arose from her crew, who had swarmed into her rigging. The Higgins' starbowlines replied with a ringing cheer, and the next moment the barque was almost out of sight astern, only her topmasts showing from behind a big sea.
The bosun ground the wheel up, and the Higgins was put on her course again.
But what a sight were her decks! The two boats were matchwood, the doors of the bosun's locker and carpenter's shop opening to windward were burst in; the heavy poop-rail of brass was bent and twisted into all shapes, whilst the standard compass box lay forced over by sheer weight of water to an angle of forty-five degrees.
The cabin was nearly full of water, which had poured in through the smashed windows, and the foc's'le and midshiphouse were both badly waterlogged. The maindeck was a hideous tangle of gear washed off the pins, and the top of the midshiphouse had been swept bare. Galley funnel, harness casks, rolls of wire, all were gone; whilst of the poop ladders, one lay over-turned, clean wrenched from its supports.
The mate now appeared, followed by the old man and the steward.
"What in hell er yew been doin' with my ship, bosun?" roared the old man, and the bosun started in to explain.
Meanwhile, with tender hands, the senseless form of the rover was unlashed from the wheel and carried forward to the foc's'le, and the old man, on hearing what had happened, had the grace to send the steward along with a stiff glass of grog.