“I can’t,” moaned Bob piteously.
“Then we shall sink—we shall go to the bottom.”
“Yes; we’re going to die,” groaned Bob.
“No, we’re not,” cried Bigley in a fierce angry way that seemed different to anything I had before heard from him. “Get up and bale!”
“No, no,” groaned Bob again.
“Get up and bale!” thundered Bigley, and I felt hot and angry against him, as I heard a dull thud, and it did not need Bob Chowne’s cry of pain to tell me that Bigley had given him a kick on the ribs.
“Oh, Big!” I cried.
“Row!” he roared at me; and then to Bob: “Now, will you bale?”
“Yes,” groaned Bob, struggling to his knees, and, holding on with one hand, he began to dip the baler in regularly and slowly, throwing out about a pint of water every time.
“Faster!” shouted Bigley; “faster, I say.”