Bigley was ready for the emergency, though, directly, and we saw the rise and fall of the tin pan as he swept it up and down and sent the water flying on the wings of the wind.
Before he had baled the boat out the first time another wave swept in, and he had to work hard to clear that out; but he soon had that done after correcting our rowing, for I was pulling harder than Bob, and the consequence was that the boat was not quite head to wind and did not ride so easily as she should.
Darker and darker, with the faint star in the Gap quite gone now, and all around us the hissing waste of waters upon which our frail shell of a boat was tossed! It was so black now that we could hardly see each other’s faces, and in a doleful silence we toiled on till all at once there was a sobbing cry from Bob Chowne, who fell forward over his oar. Then the boat fell off and a wave came with a hissing rush over the bows.
“Back water, Sep!” yelled Bigley as he dragged Bob Chowne away, seized his oar, and began pulling, when the boat seemed to be eased again and rose and fell regularly; but a quantity of water kept rushing to and fro about poor Bob Chowne, who kept receiving it alternately in his back and face.
“Sit up and bale, Bob!” shouted Bigley. “Do you hear? Take the pannikin and bale.”
Bob did not move, and Bigley shouted to him again.
“Take the pannikin and bale. Do you hear me? Take the pannikin and bale.”
“I can’t,” moaned Bob. “I can’t. Let me lie here and die.”
Dark as it was I could just make out Bigley’s actions, for I was in the fore part of the boat, and he before me.
“Bale, I say! Do you hear? Bale!” he shouted in his deep gruff voice.