“The thing to do now,” returned Moran, “is to get clear of here as quietly and as quickly as we can, and take this stuff with us. I can't stop to explain now, but it's big—it's big. Mate, it's big as the Bank of England.”
“Those beach-combers are right on to the game, I'm afraid,” said Wilbur. “Look, they're watching us. This stuff would smell across the ocean.”
“Rot the beach-combers! There's a bit of wind, thank God, and we can do four knots to their one, just let us get clear once.”
Moran dragged the hammock back into the cabin, and, returning upon deck, helped Wilbur to cut away the last tricing tackle. The schooner righted slowly to an even keel. Meanwhile the junk had set its one lug-sail and its crew had run out the sweeps. Hoang took the steering sweep and worked the junk to a position right across the “Bertha's” bows, some fifty feet ahead.
“They're watching us, right enough,” said Wilbur.
“Up your mains'l,” ordered Moran. The pair set the fore and main sails with great difficulty. Moran took the wheel and Wilbur went forward to cast off the line by which the schooner had been tied up to one of the whale's flukes.
“Cut it!” cried the girl. “Don't stop to cast off.”
There was a hail from the beach-combers; the port sweeps dipped and the junk bore up nearer.
“Hurry!” shouted Moran, “don't mind them. Are we clear for'ard—what's the trouble? Something's holding her.” The schooner listed slowly to starboard and settled by the head.
“All clear!” cried Wilbur.