“A sure thing,” agreed Dampier. “I was driving her to work off it with the sea getting up when the breeze burst on us. She put her rail right under, and we had to let go ’most everything before she’d pick it up. She’s pointing somewhere north, jammed right up on the starboard tack just now, but I can’t stand on.”
This was evident to Wyllard, and he closed one hand tight. He wanted to stand on as long as possible before the ice closed in, but he realized that to do so would put the schooner ashore.
“Well?” he questioned sharply.
Dampier made a grimace. “I’m going out to heave her round. If we’d any sense in us we’d square off the boom then, and leg it away across the Pacific for Vancouver.”
“In that case,” observed Wyllard, “somebody would lose his bonus.”
The skipper swung around on him with a flash in his eyes. “The bonus!” he repeated. “Who was it came for you with two dollars in his pocket after he’d bought his ticket from Vancouver?”
Wyllard smiled at him. “If you took that up the wrong way I’m sorry. She ought to work off on the port track, and when we’ve open water to leeward you can heave her to. When it moderates we can pick up the beach again.”
“That’s just what I mean to do.”
Dampier went out on deck, while Wyllard, flinging off his dripping clothing, crawled into his bunk and went quietly to sleep.