“One minute, Captain Grig; we promised to hoist up Cobb’s cockle-shell. Lend us a hand with your fellows, will you?”
“Ay, wi’ right good will,” said Silas.
There were plenty of spars on board the Arrandoon big enough to rig shears, and these were sent overboard without delay, with ropes and everything else required.
The men of the Arrandoon, assisted by those of the Canny Scotia, worked with a readiness and will worthy even of our gallant Royal Engineers. A shears was soon rigged, and a winch got up. On a spar fastened along the cockle-shell’s deck the purchase was made, and, under the superintendence of brave little Ap, the work began.
For a long time the “shell” refused to budge, so heavily did the ice press around her; the spar on her deck started though, several times. “Worse luck,” thought little Ap. He had the spar re-fastened. Tried again. The same result followed. Then little Ap considered, taking “mighty” big pinches of snuff the while.
“We won’t do like that,” he said to himself, “because, look you see, the purchase is too much on the perpendicular. Yes, yes.”
Then he had the spar elevated a couple of yards, and fastened between the masts, which he had strengthened by lashing extra spars to them. The result of this was soon apparent. The hawsers tightened, the little yacht moved, even the pressure of the ice under her helped to lift her as soon as she began to heel over, and, in half an hour afterwards, the cockle-shell lay in a very ignominious position indeed—beam-ends on the ice.
“Bravo!” cried Silas, when the men had finished their cheering. “Bravo! what would long Cobb say now? what would he say? Ha! ha! ha!”
Silas Grig laughed and chuckled till his face grew redder than ever, but he would not have been quite so gay, I think, had he known what was so soon to happen to his own ship.
Stevenson touched McBain on the shoulder.