"Poor ole Jack, too," observed Bill. "That blindness o' his cuts him to the quick for sure. I watches 'im balin' with the blood runnin' from his lips where he's bitin' of 'em. 'E's an old bird, is Jack Derringer; keeps a stiff upper lip an' don' show much, but that blood lets out how fretted 'e is an' gouged up in 'is innards."
Broncho nodded in silence, for Jack's misfortune hit his old bunkie too hard for him to feel inclined to talk about it.
Suddenly a vessel was descried to windward, flying down upon them under a close-reefed topsail, flinging the surges to right and left of her and dipping to her cat-heads at each dive.
As she lifted her stern her deck could be plainly seen, crowded with men, who crouched under her bulwarks in glistening groups. Her low black hull battled in a field of raging foam, and her long topmasts swung madly across the heavens as she rolled.
She was evidently an Island schooner.
"Jack, it's the Black Adder," cried Loyola nervously, after one glance at the nearing vessel.
"Is she close?" inquired the rolling-stone.
"We'd be standin' by water-tight doors in the Dido," declared Bill.
"Near enough to throw the shorthorn steerin' with a thirty-foot rope," put in Broncho.
As the schooner surged by, her crew manned the rail, staring wild-eyed at the whaleboat.