Day broke with the storm blowing as furiously as ever. Tom was officer of the deck, when, about ten o’clock, Maul, the carpenter, came aft to where he was standing. He was a fine-looking fellow, broad-shouldered and deep-chested. He chucked his thumb up to his forehead, and, shifting the quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other, told Tom that which sent a thrill shivering through him:
“Ten inches of water in the well, sir.”
The pumps sucked at five inches, so the Nancy Hazlewood had made five inches of water in the last hour.
“I was afraid it would come,” said Tom to himself, and then he went and reported it to the captain, for, though the leak was not of much account as regarded size, it was as dangerous as it was sudden.
“Man the pumps, sir,” was all that the captain said.
Before very long the pumps sucked, and the men gave a cheer. So far all was well enough. But an hour afterward the carpenter came aft and reported that there was a little less than thirteen inches of water in the well. Captain Knight, and Tom, and Jack were standing near together on the poop at the time.
“Man the pumps,” was all that the captain said, and then he moved away.
“Jack,” said Tom, in a low voice, “this looks ugly.”
“You’re right; it does,” said Jack.
There was a cold, dull rain blowing slantwise across the ocean at that time, which shut in everything to within a mile or two of the ship. The gale had moderated but little, but now, through all the roaring, you could hear the regular thump, thump of the pumps, where two lines of men were working at the brakes. Every now and then the sound of the pumping would stop with the sucking of water, but presently it would begin again—thump! thump! thump! thump! When evening came the sound was unceasing, for at that time they were not pumping the water out of the ship as fast as she was making it.