“Oh! pretty close to the point,” cried Josh. “I say, youngster, this is coming fishing, eh?”
“Oh! it is horrible,” said Dick, piteously.
“Not it, lad,” cried Josh. “It’s grand. Why, we might ha’ been drownded, and, what’s wuss, never washed ashore.”
Dick shivered as much from cold as misery, and gazed in the direction of the lights.
“Wonder what steamer that was as run us down!” said Josh, as the vessel he used to bale began now to scrape the wood at the bottom of the boat.
“French screw,” replied Will. “An English boat would have kept a better look-out. Why, you are cold!” he added, as he laid his hand on Dick.
“Ye–es,” said the latter with a shudder. “It is horribly cold. Shall we ever get ashore?”
“Ashore! yes,” cried Josh. “Why, they’d be able, ’most to hear us now. Let’s try.”
Taking a long breath, he placed both hands to his cheeks, and then gave vent to a dismal hail—a hail in a minor key—the cry of the sailor in dire peril, when he appeals to those on shore to come to his help, and save him from the devouring storm-beaten sea.
“Ahoy—ah!” the last syllable in a sinking inflexion of the voice a few seconds after the first.