“They’re launching the gig,” Aynsley said. “I wish we could keep you, but I suppose your friends need you?”
“Thanks! They couldn’t navigate her home.”
Jimmy ran toward the bulwarks and shouted to a group of seamen:
“Don’t bother with that ladder, boys!”
Somebody lighted a blue flare on the deckhouse top, and the strong light showed the gig lurching on the broken heave on the yacht’s lee side. Near by, the Cetacea lay plunging with her staysail up, while a dark figure on her deck flashed a lantern. Jimmy shook hands with Aynsley and sprang up on the rail; then, leaning out, seized a davit-fall and slid swiftly down. A man released the tackle-hook and pushed off the gig; the oars splashed and a sea swept her away from the yacht. In a few minutes Jimmy jumped on board the sloop and helped Moran to cast off the hawser while the gig struggled back. Another flare was burning, and he saw the boat hoisted in. Then the blaze sank down and, with a farewell blast of her whistle, the steamer vanished into the dark.
Spray leaped about the rolling sloop, her low deck was swept by the hurling sea, and a tangle of hard, wet ropes swung about the mast.
“We’ve double-reefed the mainsail and bent on the storm-jib,” Moran said, above the noise of the sea. “She’ll carry that lot with the wind on her quarter.”
“She ought to,” replied Jimmy. “Up with the throat!”
Fumbling in the dark, they hoisted the thrashing sail, and when the Cetacea listed down until her rail was in the foam Jimmy went aft to relieve Bethune at the helm.
“She’ll make a short passage if this breeze holds,” he said cheerfully. “As I’ve had three nights’ good sleep, I’ll take the first watch.”