“O, no,” whined Tom, “I can’t.”
“Well, somebody must be the crew,” said Bob, looking rather anxiously toward the clouds. “Go aloft and take in that gaff topsail.”
“O, I can’t,” answered Tom. “Suppose the storm should come up before I got down, it would blow me overboard.”
“Then you steer the boat, and I’ll do it.”
“I can’t do that either; I’m sick.”
Bob was amazed, and utterly at a loss to know how to act. Those sails must come in, the sooner the better; for the chances were not one in ten that the Mystery could reach the shore, before the storm would burst upon them in all its fury. He was the captain of the vessel, but he was powerless, for his crew would not obey his orders, and he had no means of enforcing his commands. He could not leave the tiller, in order to take in the sails, neither could he lash it fast; for what little wind there was, was shifting, and somebody must be at the helm, in order to keep the sloop headed toward the shore.
For the first time, Bob felt a little alarmed, and, for a moment, he sat calculating his chances for reaching the shore, should the boat be capsized. But he knew that was no time for such thoughts. The question then was, How to save the vessel and cargo? The fisher-boy imagined that could be easily done, if Tom would only wake up and lend his assistance. But how was he to arouse the young skipper, who was so disgracefully deserting his vessel and crew, at a time when his services were most needed?
“Captain,” began the fisher-boy.
“O, I am not the captain, now, I tell you,” interrupted Tom. “You are the master of the Mystery. Do as you please.”
“But I must have help,” said Bob. “I can’t do every thing alone. If we don’t take in those sails very soon, we shall be swamped.”