Back at the pump once more, he caught the rhythm quickly. And it wasn’t so bad now, he thought. He must be getting numb.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... Sandy seemed tireless. He even shook his head when Ken motioned toward the cabin, indicating that he could keep the pump going alone if Sandy wanted to go inside for a moment.
Back and forth ... back and forth....
Ken fastened his eyes on the stream of water that was pouring from the outlet. It seemed extremely small compared to the enormous amount of water that must be in the bilge.
“How fast?” he asked Sandy, jerking his head toward the outlet.
Sandy understood his query. “Two quarts a stroke.”
For a moment Ken thought he must be fooling. Only two quarts a stroke! He had already figured that they were pumping at about the rate of one stroke a second. Now he tried to compute the results of their labors. Two quarts a second—thirty gallons a minute.
It wasn’t enough! It couldn’t be! Every time a wave washed over the bulwarks it probably dumped several hundred gallons of water into the hold—more than they could pump out in ten long minutes of back-breaking work. And the waves came far oftener than once in every ten minutes. It was a losing battle.
“What’s the use?” Ken shouted at Sandy, looking down at their steadily moving hands.
Again Sandy understood. “We’re buying time. Can’t keep her afloat forever, but maybe something will happen. Ship might sight us. Or the storm might die down.”