“Ah, it would make you feel a bit unked, my lad,” said the boatswain, “if you had time to think; but it was a fine night for the job. I have been out in a boat after one of these silly chaps as didn’t mind where he was going, when you couldn’t make out his bearings at all. To-night the sea brimed so that you could tell where he was at every move. Splendid night for the job!”
“And it was a very brave act, Butters,” said Poole warmly.
“What was, sir?”
“Why, to jump overboard on a dark night, not knowing whether you would ever reach the schooner again.”
“Tchah! Nonsense, sir! You shouldn’t talk stuff like that to a wet man! It was all charnsh, of course; but a sailor’s life is all charnsh from the moment he steps aboard. We are charnshing now whether they’ll pick us up again, for they can’t see us, and we don’t seem to be making no headway at all in this current. Here, you, Sam Boulter, get right in the stem and stand by there with that there box of matches. Keep on lighting one and holding it up to let it shine out. Be careful and don’t burn your ringers.”
A low chuckle rose from the oarsmen, followed the next moment by a deep groan and a low muttering from the reviving man.
“Hah!” said the boatswain. “He’s coming round now, and no mistake.”
Just then there was a sharp scratch, a pale light of the splint of wood stood out in the darkness, and mingled with a spluttering husky cough came the voice of the half-drowned foremast-man.
“Here, easy there! What are you doing? Hah! Boat! Boat! Help!”
This was consequent on the gleaming match shining out before the poor fellow’s eyes.