“Your master's son!” cried he, wringing his hands in anguish.
“Oh, murther! murther!” screamed the boatman; “we 'll never see him again. 'T is out to say, into the wild ocean, he'll be blown!”
“Is there no shelter,—no spot he could make for?”
“Barrin' the islands, there's not a spot between this and America.”
“But he could make the islands,—you are sure of that?”
“If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure I know him well; he 'll never take in a reef or sail, but sit there, with the helm hard up, just never carin' what came of him! Oh, musha! musha! what druv him out such a night as this!”
“Come, it's no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid?”
“Afraid!” replied the man, with a touch of scorn in his voice; “faix, it's little fear troubles me. But, may be, you won't like to be in her yourself when she's once out. I 've none belongin' to me,—father, mother, chick or child; but you may have many a one that's near to you.”
“My ties, are, perhaps, as light as your own,” said Harcourt. “Come, now, be alive. I'll put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him.”
“I'd rather see his face than have two hundred,” said the man, as, springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the low half-deck, and prepare for sea.