Nasmyth did so; but he could not continue to hold it indefinitely, and in a few moments there was a suggestive crack, and George desisted in evident dismay.
“Come adrift from the stiffening quite a strip of it,” he said. “Well, I guess I can somehow fix the thing up so as nobody will notice it. It should be easier than putting a new cloth in a topsail, and I’ve a mending outfit in the locker.”
Nasmyth was by no means sure of George’s ability to make the damage good, but he permitted the skipper to tie on the loose skirt, and then to hang the beribboned mandolin round his neck. When this was done George surveyed him with a grin of satisfaction.
“Well,” said George, “I guess you’ll do. Now you’ll keep behind the skylights, and only get up and bang that mandolin when Martial wants to come on board. Guess when he sees you he’ll feel ’most like jumping right out of his skin. Miss Hamilton’s not going to mind. I’ve seen her looking at him as if she’d like to stick a big hatpin into him.”
They went up, and Nasmyth, who felt guilty as he crouched in the shadow, could see a black head and the flash of a white arm that swung out into the moonlight and disappeared again. Martial was swimming pluckily, and the tide was with him, for his head grew larger every 156 minute, and presently the gleam of his skin became visible through the pale shining of the brine. His face dipped as his left arm came out at every stroke, and the water frothed as his feet swung together like a flail. He paddled easily while the tide swept him on until he reached the Tillicum. Then his voice rose, breathless and cautious.
“Anchor watch,” he called. “Anybody else on board?”
George, who kept out of sight, did not answer. Martial called again.
“Don’t let anybody out of the companion while I get up,” he commanded.
The Tillicum had a high sheer forward, and he could not reach her rail, but as the tide swept him along he raised himself to clutch at it where it was lower abreast of the skylights.
“Now,” said George softly, “you can play the band.”