“Well done, Strake,” cried Syd, making a snatch at the line.
“Nay, nay, sir,” whispered the old man; “you’re skipper here; let me do this.”
“Yes; go on,” said Syd, colouring at his boyish impetuosity, as he resigned the line to the boatswain’s hands. “Haul steadily! that’s the way. Now, then, will it hold?”
There was another cheer, for, as the rope was drawn upon, the marlin-spike caught somewhere on the far side among the broken stays of the foremast.
But the wreck was not secured yet. It was gliding along slowly with the tide, but with great force, while it required a great deal of humouring and easing off to succeed for fear that the hold should break away. The consequence was that the men who held on by the rope had to follow the little vessel for some distance before it began to yield, and then they towed it slowly and steadily along. No easy task, for the towing-path was one continuous climb, and the men had to pass the line on from one party to the other.
But they towed away till the spot was reached whence the line had been thrown, and now that the boat was well in motion, the task grew more and more easy.
“Steady, there, steady!” growled the boatswain. “You arn’t got hold of a nine-inch cable, and it arn’t hard and fast to the capstan. Steady, lads.”
For the men were getting excited, and were stamping away. They calmed down though, and towed on and on till Syd began to give his orders, looking hard at Strake the while, as if to ask if he was doing right.
“You, Rogers, have a line ready and jump aboard as she comes close in by the pier. Make it fast round the stump of the bowsprit.”
“Nay, nay, sir,” growled Strake; “take a turn or two round the foremas’, my lad, run the rope out through the hawse-hole, and then chuck it ashore here.”