"What the hell!" roared the Old Man.
"Please, sir, Mr. Thompson's gone for him."
"Mr. who? ... blast you!"
"Mr. Thompson, sir."
"Then lower the gig." The Old Man began to stamp up and down the deck, roaring like a maniac. "Lower the gig, I tell ye." His fingers were the first on the davits. "And all hands pipe up a chantey ... louder ... louder ... blast you! ... to keep off those sharks."
The Old Man's voice was hoarse and terrible, as he worked like a demon to launch the boat.
"Louder, louder, blast you!" he kept roaring. The smooth, dead-white bellies lay all around, shining in the sunrise. The Old Man was in a frenzy; it seemed as if the boat would never be got into the water.
At last it was launched and the Old Man was the first to jump into it, still roaring like one possessed. He beat the water furiously with a piece of spar. But Mr. Thompson with the boy in tow seemed to be holding his own very well. Either the sharks had not seen them, or they dare not approach in the midst of that terrific outcry.
They were soon in the boat, Mr. Thompson being a powerful swimmer; and when at last they were back on the deck of the Margaret Carey, the boy lay gasping and the mate stood by like some large and savage dog, shaking the water out of his eyes.
"Whatever made you do that, Mr. Thompson?" expostulated the Old Man. He was a good deal sobered by the incident, and his manner showed it.