“That would not save your ship, sir; besides, your main-mast has gone by the board.”
“I think, sir,” said Mr. Slim, a diffident youth, “I think, sir, I would haul back the fore-top-sail.”
“And why so? of what service would that be, I should like to know, Mr. Slim?”
“I can’t tell exactly; but I think it would help her a little,” was the timid reply.
“Not a whit, sir—not one particle; besides, you can’t haul back your fore-top-sail—your fore-mast is lying across your forecastle.”
“Haul back the main-top-sail, then,” suggested another.
“Can’t be done; your main-mast, also, has gone by the board!”
“Mizzen-top-sail?” meekly suggested little Boat-Plug.
“Your mizzen-top-mast, let me inform you, sir, was shot down in the first of the fight!”
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Dash, “I’d tack ship, anyway; bid ’em good-by with a broadside; nail my flag to the keel, if there was no other place; and blow my brains out on the poop!”