“You’re founderin’,” added Romano. Then he drew himself up as if ready to act. “De boat’s a West Indian, boys, an’ she mus’ had nigger crew. Dey ain’t scuttle her, but all de hatch an’ port is wide open. What’s de cargo?” he asked, turning again toward the man.
“Timber.”
“What kin’ timber?”
“Hard wood—mahogany from San Domingo—twenty thousand dollars worth of it,” wailed the man. “And every dollar of it mine. I’m ruined.”
“Maybe so,” answered Captain Joe. “When yo’ tradin’ on de sea, yo’ mus’ ship white men. Go git some blanket on yo’ an’ bring two blanket fo’ dese wet kids. Boys,” he exclaimed sharply, “heave dat bon fire overboard. Den we see ef we kin keep her offen de beach.”
Instead of following instructions, the nearly demented mahogany trader began again to bemoan his loss, and then fell to cursing the cowardly crew.
“I don’t want a blanket,” exclaimed Bob. The excitement, and his constant activity had long since set up a reaction against the chill caused by his immersion on the beach. “I can’t work in a blanket.”
There was too much to do to argue the matter.
“Shall we let go the anchors, sir?” asked Mac, when the boys had hurled the grease and oil laden barrel into the sea.
The experienced old sailor quickly explained his plan. The almost water-logged steamer was too far into shallow water to be anchored with safety. If the storm increased, there was danger of her pounding. Well forward, there was a single, small mast—more for signal lights than for sailing purposes—but it carried two jibs. If these could be set, with them and the wheel, some slight control might be secured of the drifting craft.