It was on the north side of this great rock, which is at once a monstrous and a tragic figure, that the wreck was skewered, listing to starboard, her sticks still standing but her canvas unstowed. The crew had evidently piled her there, perhaps in the dark.
Now, drawing close to her, that stern seemed familiar, and the fact that she was a yacht became apparent. It was Hank who voiced the growing conviction in their minds.
“Boys!” cried Hank, “she’s the Wear Jack!”
George and Tommie were the only boys on that deck beside himself, but Tommie did not laugh. She heaved a deep breath and stood with her hands on the rail and her eyes fixed on the wreck.
“She is,” said George. “Look at her paint. Lord, this is lovely, that fellow has piled her.”
“And got off in the boat,” said Hank. “The boat’s gone. They’d have easy lowered her over the starboard side.”
“What are you going to do?” asked the other. “Shall we board her?”
“Sure,” said Hank. “Roust out Jake and get ready to drop the hook if we can find anchorage. Get the lead ready.”
George ran to the foc’sle and rousted out Jake who came on deck rubbing his eyes.
“Why there’s the—old Jack,” cried he. “Piled!” He clapped his hand on his thigh, then fetched the lead at the order of Hank and hove it.