In the afternoon, the wind changed a little, backing to the north-west; the sky grew brighter, and he made out shadowy land over his starboard quarter. By and by he recognised it with a start. It was the high ridge north of Comox, and as he had run farther than he had expected, he must try to hoist the peak of the mainsail and haul her on the wind. There was danger in rounding her up, but it must be faced, though a sea foamed across her as he put down his helm. Another followed, but he scrambled forward and struggled desperately to hoist the downhanging gaff. The halliards were swollen; he could scarcely keep his footing on the deluged deck that slanted steeply under him. He thought he could have mastered the banging canvas had he been fresh; but, worn out as he was, drenched with spray, and buffeted by the shattered tops of the seas, the task was beyond his power. Giving it up, he staggered back, breathless and almost nerveless, to the helm.
He could not reach Comox, which lay to windward, with the sail half-set, but it was only seventy miles or thereabouts to Nanaimo and not very much farther to Vancouver. The breeze would be fair to either, and he could charter a launch or tug for the return journey. Letting her go before the sea again, he ate some canned meat ravenously, tearing it with one hand.
Shortly afterwards, a grey mass rose out of the water to port and he supposed it was Texada. There were mines on the island, and he might be able to engage a rescue party; but he reflected that he could not beat the sloop back to windward unless the breeze fell, which it showed no signs of doing. It would be more prudent to go on to Vancouver, where he would be sure of getting a steamer, but he closed with the long island a little, and dusk was falling when he made out a boat in the partial shelter of a bight. Standing in closer, he saw that there were two men in the craft, and driving down upon her he backed the jib and ran alongside.
There was a crash as he struck the boat, and an astonished and angry man clutched the sloop’s rail.
“Now what in the name of thunder?” he began, and stopped, struck by Carroll’s ragged appearance.
“Can you take this sloop to Vancouver?” the latter inquired.
“I could if it was worth while,” was the cautious answer. “It will be a mighty wet run.”
“Seven dollars a day, until you’re home again,” said Carroll. “A bonus if you can sail her with the whole reefed mainsail up—I won’t stick at a few dollars. Can your partner pull that boat ashore alone? If not, cast her adrift, I’ll buy her.”
“He’ll make the beach,” said the other, jumping on board. “Seven dollars sounds a square deal. I won’t put the screw on you.”
“Then help me hoist the peak,” Carroll bade him. “After that, you can take the helm; I’m played out.”