"Stiffen up," said Stickine. "We've got to get there quick. Wind's coming along right now."
He had scarcely spoken when the splash from Niven's oar blew over Appleby's shoulder and wetted his face, while the slope of the next sea was lined with ripples curiously. Then one frothed angrily on its top, and when the boat plunged over the next one a cloud of spray whirled up. She seemed to stop a trifle, while as the oars went down again Appleby gasped, for Donegal and Stickine were swinging a trifle faster, and he found it almost impossible to keep stroke. He had also a shrewd suspicion that they could, if it was necessary, row as they were doing all through the night, while it was evident that another half-hour would exhaust the last of his strength. Still, he set his lips and tugged at his oar, while as the lurches grew sharper it became more difficult to keep the blade out of the water.
At last when the bows were flung high he missed his stroke and fell backwards upon Niven, while as he scrambled to his feet again Stickine stopped rowing, and twisting round, looked at them over his shoulder. It is more than possible he saw distress in the young faces, for that was a bigger and heavier boat than those generally used for sealing, and Appleby noticed that he shook his head as he glanced at Donegal.
"The schooner's 'bout a mile to windward still," he said. "You've got to wake right up and pull."
His voice was sterner than usual, and the lads, who recognized the difference, shook themselves together and fell to again. They were very tired, but they had discovered on board the Aldebaran that there are times when the overtaxed body must be kept to its task by sheer force of mind, and that worn out, ill or well, men must work at sea. Still, Stickine's stroke was a trifle slower when they went on again, and gasping and panting, while their arms grew powerless and their temples throbbed, they kept time to it. The spray was flying freely, and there was nothing to be seen but dim slopes of water tipped with froth, for the right was smothered in the fog and the dusk which replaces night at that season closing in. Niven was groaning audibly now and then, and Appleby pulled in torment with a horrible pain in his side, when at last the crash of a gun came out of the dimness.
"Over our starboard bow!" said Donegal; and as he swung into faster stroke, the task became grimmer yet.
Now, Niven had been one of the best hares the Sandycombe Harriers had ever known, and Appleby had brought the school boat home first in the local regatta, but they had never taxed their uttermost endurance of mind and body as they did in the wild ten minutes that followed. It was one thing to race for honour or a silver cup, and a very different one to row for their lives, as they felt unpleasantly certain they were doing now. All round them seatops came frothing whitely out of the darkness, but the sound they made was lost in the scream of wind.
At last, however, and with relief unspeakable, Appleby saw the schooner's canvas grow out of the mist. They were close upon her before they could see her hull, and then it was only the dripping bows swung high with a jib hauled to windward above them. She crawled out of the vapour, rolling to leeward, with the streaky backwash streaming down her sides, and while Niven wondered whether it would by any means be possible to get on board her, the boat slid in under her bulwarks as they came swinging down, and Stickine clutched the rope that was flung him.
Niven did not know whether he crawled up or Stickine pulled him, but in another moment he was on board the Champlain with Appleby beside him and a row of men floundering aft along the deck. Then the boat swung in between the masts, and when she dropped upon the hatch he saw that Jordan was talking to Stickine a yard or two away.
"One good one," said the latter. "And a bull. We'll do if we get two dollars for him. Two of the boats away yet?"