Nothing was very near, and he spoke.
“Will she sink, Cinder?” he said; and it seemed a long time, in his terrible anxiety, before his companion spoke.
“No. There’s a lot of water in, but if you can look out and steer, I can hold the sheet and bale.”
He handed the sheet to Mike, crept forward, opened the locker in the bows, and took out an old tin pot kept for the purpose, crept back and took the sheet again, as he knelt down in the water and began to bale, scooping it up, and sending it flying over the side, but without seeming to make much impression.
“Another rock,” said Mike.
“All right; you know how to pass it,” said Vince, without ceasing his work, but sending the water flying to leeward; and for the next quarter of an hour he did not cease—not even turning his head when they went dangerously near rock after rock.
It was only when, with a deep, catching sigh, Mike said that the current did not seem so strong, that he looked up and saw that the rocky point of the island was nearly a couple of miles away.
“Which way shall I steer?” said Mike; and Vince stood up to take in their position.
“If we go round the point with the tide we shall have to fight against the wind and the current that sets along the west shore,” he said. “That won’t do. We must go back the way we came.”
“What, against that mill race?” cried Mike in dismay.