“There’s a risk of your doing so if you persist in your foolishness. If you had stopped to reason, you would have seen it was your duty to agree with your skipper. Misguided pity is a dangerous thing.”
“Moralizing of this kind makes my headache worse!” said Jimmy disgustedly. “Drop it and light your pipe!”
“Let him alone; he has to talk,” Moran interposed. “It doesn’t matter so long as you don’t worry about what he means.”
“Well,” drawled Bethune, “I’ll conclude. Which of you is going to wash up?”
Moran picked up the dirty plates and thrust them into a locker.
“I’m played out and homesick! Wish I was back East, where I did my fishing in the natural way—on top of the water! But it’s a sure thing none of us will be down at the wreck to-morrow.”
There was silence except for the rumble of the surf and the occasional rap of a halyard against the mast. The sound became more frequent as Jimmy got drowsy, but he was used to the approach of bad weather. Stretched out comfortably on the locker, he soon fell asleep; and it was as dark as it ever is in the North in summer when he was rudely awakened by a terrific jar. The sloop seemed to be rearing upright, and Moran’s hoarse shouts were all but drowned by the rattle of chain on deck.
Scrambling out quickly, Jimmy saw the fisherman stooping forward where the cable crossed the bits, and a narrow stretch of smoking sea ahead. Individual combers emerged from it, and the sloop alternately reeled over them with a white surge boiling at her bows and plunged into the hollows. Jimmy, however, wasted no time in looking about; they had hung on to their moorings longer than was prudent, and prompt action was needed.
With Bethune’s assistance he close-reefed the mainsail and got the shortened canvas up; then all three were needed to break out the anchor, and Jimmy crouched in the water that swept the forward deck as he stowed it while his comrades hoisted a storm-jib. After that she drove away before the sea, and the men anxiously watched for the entrance to the channel. Though dawn had not broken, it was by no means dark, and they could see the streaky backs of the rollers that ran up the shoals, and beyond them a broad, white band of surf. Presently a break opened up, but it was narrow and crooked, and it seemed impossible that the sloop could get through. When they had run on for a minute or two longer, Moran stood up on deck to command a better view.
“We’d have about two feet under her at the bend, and if she didn’t luff up handy she’d sure go ashore,” he said. “Seems to me the chances are too blamed steep.”