Mayo, returning to the mizzen, found the entire crew grouped there. The mast was writhing and groaning in its deck collar, twisting its coat—the canvas covering at its foot where it entered the deck.
The dusky faces were exhibiting much concern. They had flocked where the ship was dealing herself a wound; the sailor sixth sense of impending trouble had drawn them there.
“Four of you hustle aloft and stand ready to make fast those stays!” commanded the first mate.
“Rest of you make ready tackle!” shouted the second mate, following close on Mayo's heels.
The negroes did not stir. They mumbled among themselves.
“Step lively!” insisted the mate.
“'Scuse us, but dat mast done goin' to tumble down,” ventured a man.
“Aloft with you, I say!”
Just then the schooner slatted herself on a great roller, and the starboard stays snapped, one after the other, like mammoth fiddle-strings. The mast reeled and there was an ominous sound below the deck.
“She done put a hole into herself!” squealed a sailor.