It had never occurred to Jack to go to his brother’s assistance. When taxed with his callousness—
“What for I go?” he replied. “No plenty good. P’r’aps Jack he catchee my kayak, and den we bof on us toomble. No, no, not plenty good enough.”
“Call away the whalers,” bawled Claude.
“Call both away, Mr Lloyd.”
There was a trampling of feet, and a rattling of blocks and tackle, and in two minutes both took the water with a plash.
“A guinea to the first boat that reaches the kayak,” cried Claude.
There was a race on then—a very exciting one, though only to save the life of a poor Eskimo Indian.
The kayak could be distinctly seen from the masthead, with poor deserted Joe clinging to it.
Claude went himself to the crow’s-nest, to guide the boats by means of the long fan used for such purpose by Greenland-going ships.
The poor fellow was at length rescued, very much exhausted.