By this time he was almost exhausted with the effort of the climb and holding the weight of his body on the greasy spar with one arm. But though he had thrust the end of the halliard up through the sheave, he had yet to bring the end down through the pulley hole, and this called for a hand to hold the line and another to reeve it down through. The rolling of the ship was swaying the mast, and, as he hung desperately on to loo’ard, the dead-weight of his body almost wrenched the muscles out of his shoulders and arms. The swinging of the mast was nauseating him in his excited condition, and he felt his strength gradually ebbing. The breath was hissing through his clenched teeth in rapid gasps; his heart was pounding fiercely, and his imagination began to picture horrid visions of him hurtling through the air and crashing to the deck.
“I’ve got to do it! I’ve got to do it!” he panted, and making a supreme effort he thrust the line into his left hand, and reaching over the truck with the other, pushed the end down and through. Grasping this in his teeth, he slid down the pole, caught the skys’l backstay and swung down to the spreader of the cross-trees.
Exhausted, sick and shaky, he sat on the spreader for a few moments until breath and composure was restored, and then he came down on deck and belayed the halliard. Mr. Nickerson was smoking a clay pipe and leaning back in a corner of the poop rail when he mounted the ladder and reported, “Halliard’s rove, sir!” The mate looked quizzically at him for a second, and taking the pipe from his mouth, remarked, “Ye were a hell of a long time doin’ it!” After accomplishing what, to Donald, seemed a most hazardous and herculean feat, this was all the praise he got. It was the way of the sea!
In the night watch the mate called Donald over to him. It was a quiet evening—cold but clear, and with a moderate breeze blowing. “Son,” he said, “would you go aloft again to-morrow an’ reeve another signal halliard?”
“Yes, sir!” answered the boy bravely, and wondering what was coming.
“Y’ain’t scared?”
“Not now, sir. I was while I was up there, but I won’t be next time.” Nickerson seemed pleased. “That’s why I sent you up, boy,” he said. “I wanted to see if your nerve was good. You’ll do, son!” He puffed away at his pipe for a spell.
“What d’ye cal’late makes the Old Man an’ Hinkel treat you the way they do? S’pose ye spin me something of how ye come to go to sea.” He spoke kindly.
McKenzie told him in a short narration the events which were responsible for his being on the Kelvinhaugh. The mate plied him with questions and grunted at the answers. “So yer old man was skipper of the Ansonia, was he?” he ejaculated one time during the boy’s story.
“Yes, sir! Did you know him?” Donald had not mentioned the Ansonia. Nickerson affected not to hear. “Go on with yer yarn,” he growled, and when Donald had finished, he asked, “This Hinkel, naow. Hev ye ever seen him afore? No? D’ye know anything about him?”