“Blest if I don’t believe this is Mr Lascelles that I’ve just been and fished up,” I heard Tom Collins say. “Ay, and it is too,” he continued, as he hoisted me still higher on the spar. “Lend a hand here, somebody, to clear the young skipper; he’s wrapped up in enough stuff to make a new set of running gear for a seventy-four.”
I opened my eyes, and found that I was with a number of others on the wreck of the foremast, which, with all attached, had fortunately broken adrift from the wreck as it foundered, and was now floating, with the yards underneath it, just as it had originally gone over the bows.
“Is that Collins?” I asked, when I had at length recovered breath enough to speak.
“Ay, ay, sir; it’s me, safe enough, thank God!” was the answer. “Glad to find as you’re alive and hearty, sir.”
“Thank you, Collins; how many do we muster here? there’s such a net-work of raffle across my face that I can scarcely see.”
“Don’t know exactly, sir; it’s too dark to count, but we seem to muster pretty strong, all things considered. We’ll soon have you clear, sir. Now then, Bill, you stand by to haul Mr Lascelles out of the thick of these bights and turns whilst I holds ’em up. Now then—haul! Is that better, sir?”
“Very much better, thank you,” said I, as they dragged me out clear of the thickest of the raffia. “If you are seated firmly enough for me to put my arm round your neck I think I can work myself free altogether. That’s it, capital! Now, I’m all clear.”
“Is that Mr Lascelles’ voice I hear?” asked somebody who was clinging to the topmast, some twenty feet away.
“It is,” said I; “who are you?”
“I’m Tompion, sir,” was the reply. “Very glad to find you among us, Mr Lascelles. I was afraid you were among the missing at first.”