“But there isn’t any disciplined crew,”—he was in the act of stepping across the chain—“and there isn’t any other way of getting off the bar.”
“There are other men,” said Mrs. Locke, quite low.
“Oh, plenty,” and he was on the other side. But so was Hildegarde.
“You aren’t allowed over here,” Cheviot said. She was looking up at the captain and making him a little signal for permission. He nodded, and without a word to Cheviot she went up to Gillies on the bridge. In a few minutes she came down again, but instead of joining the passengers on the other side of the chain, she made her way to where, a little apart from the group of volunteers, Cheviot stood watching the small boat which, manned by the first officer, O’Gorman, and two others, was bobbing about dimly on the roughened water.
Just as Louis caught sight of her one of the volunteers stepped between them. “What makes those fellows so devilish slow?”
“Doing the best they can,” said Cheviot, with an air of not meaning to notice the girl.
“No, they aren’t doing the best they can. They aren’t even getting our boat lowered.”
“They’ve had to knock off work a minute. The wind’s playing the mischief with the head-sails.”
“Yes, and if we don’t look sharp the wind’ll play the mischief with more than the head-sails.”
The volunteer looked across Cheviot’s shoulder an instant into the thicker fog. Through that veil no man might yet discover if the ice were being driven back against the bar, but all could feel that the need for quick action might be greater than the fog would let them see.