“What is it?” asked Harman.
“Schooner hove to,” said Blood. “No, b’gosh, she’s not; she’s abandoned.”
At the word “abandoned,” Ginnell, who had been fishing for want of something better to do, raised his head like a bird of prey.
He also left his line, and came forward. Blood handed him the glass.
“Faith, you’re right,” said Ginnell; “she’s a derelick. Boys, up with them tomfool shark lines; here’s a chanst of somethin’ decent.”
For once Blood and Harman were completely with him; the lines were hauled in, the kelp connections broken, mainsail and jib set, and in a moment, as it were, the Heart of Ireland was bounding on the swell, topsail and foresail shaking out now and bellying against the blue till she heeled almost gunwale under to the merry wind, boosting the green water from her bow, and sending the foam flooding in sheets to starboard.
It was as though the thought of plunder had put new heart and life into her, as it certainly had into her owner, Pat Ginnell.
As they drew nearer, they saw the condition of the schooner more clearly. Derelict and deserted, yet with mainsail set, she hung there, clawing at the wind and thrashing about in the mad manner of a vessel commanded only by her tiller.
Now the mainsail would fill and burst out, the boom swaying over to the rattle of block and cordage. For a moment she would give an exhibition of just how a ship ought to sail herself, and then, with a shudder, the air would spill from the sail, and, like a daft woman in a blowing wind, she would reel about with swinging gaff and boom to the tune of the straining rigging, the pitter-patter of the reef points, and the whine of the rudder nearly torn from its pintles.
A couple of cable lengths away the Heart of Ireland hove to, the whaleboat was lowered, and Blood, Ginnell, and Harman, leaving Chopstick Charlie in charge of the Heart, started for the derelict. They came round the stern of the stranger, and read her name, Tamalpais, done in letters that had been white, but were now a dingy yellow.