Shifting sail is a busy bit of work. The bosun and his men on the fore, with their backs turned, were busy stretching their sail to a chorus, all in ignorance of the tragedy which had just occurred; whilst Black Davis, with the rest of the hands, was in the sail-locker, putting away the unbent sails.
At this moment he appeared on deck, followed by a line of men shouldering a main course, which looked for all the world like a huge white serpent, coming along the deck on six pairs of legs.
It was a delicious day. The north-east trade wind was light, and the Higgins was sneaking along over the deep blue of the Pacific, doing hardly six knots.
The bright sun shone upon the gleaming cotton canvas, giving it the dazzling appearance of snow.
As the mate stepped forward of the mainmast, he glanced casually up at the men at work above.
The first thing to catch his eye was the red stain of blood on the bellying breast of the topsail, and then he noticed that the men on the yard seemed to be all crowded into the bunt.
"Brazen sarpints! What the tarnation hell air yew doin' up thar?" he roared.
"Second mate's got badly stuck, sir," replied Jack.
"Who stuck him?"