Jack looked him very hard in the face for a moment or two. “See here, Tom,” said he, at last; “you know the old saying;—‘each man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost;’ don’t be a fool; go with us, you’re a better hand at managing a boat than I am.”
“I don’t care to go.”
“Very well, my hearty; suit yourself,” was all that Jack said, and he swung on his heel, and left the poop.
Tom saw him a little later standing beside the cutter with a heavy iron belaying pin in his hand, so as to keep the men from crowding into the boat. The men had a great notion of Jack’s strength, and maybe it was this that kept them back, for Tom saw no movement in that direction.
About five or ten minutes before the cutter was lowered, and about half-past ten or eleven o’clock in the morning of Thursday, the 26th, the ship was slowly settling by the stern. Any one could see that there was a great change in the last half of an hour, and Tom began to be afraid that she would founder before they could get the boat away. He went forward to where Jack and the men were busy at work.
“If you don’t lower away pretty soon, it’ll be too late, Jack,” said he.
“Tom,” said Jack, turning to him, suddenly, “don’t be a bull-headed loon in such a matter as this. Come, and take your chance like a man; there’s a place in the cutter yet, for I’ve taken care to save it for you.”
Poor Tom was only a mortal man, and his life was very sweet to him at that moment, when there seemed so great a chance of his losing it. Therefore, he could not screw the words of refusal from his lips;—he could only shake his head.
“You won’t come?” said Jack.
“No!” roared Tom; “didn’t you hear me say no? Are you deaf? No! I tell you; no! no!!”