“Here she be,” he said, tearing out the half of a tin bucket that had held the bait. “Now we’ll do some work.”
As he spoke he began dipping and emptying, pouring nearly a gallon of water over the side at every turn; and in ten minutes, during which he had laboured incessantly, he had made such a change that he bade Will come in.
“Now you can bale a bit,” he said. “My arms are about dead.”
Will climbed in and took the bucket, scooping out the water with all his might, while Josh bent over Dick.
“You’re ’bout perished, my lad. Come along.”
He placed his hands under Dick’s arm-pits, and though he said that his own arms were about dead he hoisted the boy in almost without an effort, and then left him to help himself, while he resumed baling with his hands, scooping out the water pretty fast, and each moment lightening the little craft.
“Good job we’d no stone killicks aboard, Will,” he said, “or down she’d have gone.”
“There’s the buoys too wedged forward,” said Will; “they have helped to keep her up.”
“’Bout balanced the creepers,” said Josh. “It’s a question of a pound weight at a time like this. There, take it steadily, my lads. We’re safe now, and can see that the tide’s carrying of us in. Lights look bigger, eh?”
“Yes,” said Will, who was working hard with his baler. “Where shall we drive ashore?”