“Why, how—how——”
“There’s no telling how the fire started, if that is what you want to know. What did I tell you, George? I am not surprised at it, for I have been looking for this, or something just as bad, to happen to the old tub for a long time. It is a wonder to me that she has stayed above water as long as she has. But she’s a dead duck now. She’ll go like a tinder-box.”
“Well, we don’t want to go with her,” cried George, in great excitement. “Turn her toward the bank. Run her ashore!”
He sprang forward to assist Mr. Black in swinging the boat around, but no sooner had they laid out their strength on the wheel than something seemed to give away all at once, the wheel flew out of their grasp, and George fell to the deck all in a heap, while Mr. Black only saved himself by clinging to a stanchion.
“What’s the matter?” cried George, as he scrambled to his feet.
“The tiller-rope has parted and the boat is unmanageable,” was the appalling reply. “She’ll burn and sink in the deepest part of the channel, and I can’t swim a stroke.”
When Bob heard these words he sank down on the bench almost overcome with terror. Just then Mr. Scanlan came bounding up the steps to the hurricane deck, carrying his boots in his hand and his coat over his arm. “What’s the matter with you in there?” he demanded. “Are you both asleep? Don’t you know that we are all in a blaze below? Run her ashore.”
“We can’t. The tiller-rope is burned off!”
“Burned off,” repeated Mr. Scanlan, as he came rushing into the pilot-house. “I thought the watchman said the fire was in the galley. Well, I swan!” he added, as Mr. Black gave the wheel a turn to show that the rope was no longer connected with it. “We must be burned half in two already.”
“Who-whoop!” shouted George, through the trumpet.