“No, no,” he groaned, “I couldn’t do it. If I could it’d be just fine; but who’s to hang on with his hands and double hisself up enough to take aim with both his wooden pegs at once so that they could go right into that ring and stopper the rope like a cable going through a hawse hole?
“Can’t be done, can’t be done; but—ahoy there! Dozens on yer hanging about if yer warn’t wanted, and now not a lubber within hail. Ahoy there! Ship ahoy! Is everyone dead, I say? Ship a–a–hoy–y–y–y!” he yelled, in a despairing voice.
“Ahoy there! What’s the matter? That you, Tom Bodger?”
“Bodger it is, Master Aleck. Here, quick, or I shall have both my hands off as well as my legs, and you’ll have to put me out of my misery then.”
“Why, Tom,” cried Aleck, wildly. “What ever—oh!”
The lad wasted no more breath, for he grasped the position as soon as he reached the head of the steps.
“Can you hold on a minute?”
“I can’t, sir, but my fists will,” groaned the man, and then in a hoarse whisper—“Rope!”
“I see,” cried Aleck, and he ran back a dozen yards along the pier to where he could see a coil of small rope for throwing aboard vessels in rough weather to bring back their looped cables and pass them over the posts.
He was back again directly, uncoiling it as he came and leaving it trailing, while, end in hand, he reached the top of the steps, went down to where the poor fellow hung on, and shouting out words of encouragement the while, he passed a hand down, got hold of the loose painter below Bodger’s, and with the quick deft fingers of one used to the sea and the handling of lines he effected a quick firm knotting of the two ropes.