He lay perfectly uninjured to all appearance. There was a blue mark on his neck, and his jersey had been split. Those were the only signs of dissolution. Poor Murry! He was a fine hearty sailor, and I am sure all his mates missed him for many a day.
This terrible incident affected us both deeply. Tim said a few words only, but I could perceive that he was feeling deeply, though his training and habit did not tend to sentiment. My intention was to get back as quickly as possible, and I said so. Let us get home!
"Whatever course are you steering, Tim?" I asked. "We're making out, not home."
"We shall never get home unless by land—unless we run ashore," replied Tim grimly. "She's leakin' like old boots."
"Leaking! What do you mean?" I asked in alarm.
"I means leakin', that's plain enough, I think. She's takin' the sea in fine, and I dessay in a few hours we'll see her beached."
"Where?" I asked quickly. "You're keeping off shore now."
"Can't land under these cliffs, anyhow. We must bail and run soon. That's our only chance I take it, Mister Jule. 'Spose you looks and bails; there's a dipper there. See to the well. Come, we'll lash the tiller, and she'll lie up a while in the wind if the mainsel catches her astern."
"But surely we can get ashore well enough. There are several vessels yonder; let us run out and board one."
"And be swamped likely. No, sir; let's weather the point and then we may get in on the eddy a bit. See here, we're driftin' now; we can't signal, the weather's thick a'ready, and likely as not a fog will come up to-night. There's bad weather about now. So let's try for the leak anyhow, and fix it."