“They’d smash that, too, and——”
“Ho, Captain—” it was the voice of one of the bark’s crew—“here’s a sail bearing down.”
V
The sea-swept Buccaneer, bucking the northwester, was putting in great licks on the southerly tack. Suddenly the forward watch, trying to keep warm in the lee of a bit of canvas tacked to the weather fore-rigging, spied an abandoned vessel.
“Wreck O!” his voice rang above the gale. Crump Taylor and half the crew came piling up to the tumbling deck.
“Where away? Sure enough! Let’s see again. That’s what—a wreck!”
The fast-sailing Buccaneer was soon abreast of her. “Jibe her over and sail around her—let’s have a closer look,” said Crump, and the man at the wheel did as bid.
“She’s pretty low, and all iced up. She looks bad, but you never can tell. What the devil’s that big tug doin’, and not helpin’ her? But no matter what he’s doin’—drop alongside there—not too close. One roll of her atop of us and our names’d be in the papers with the fine notices they give a man when he’s dead. ‘An honor to their profession,’ ‘Too bad they died,’ and so on—all fine enough, but not healthy. Hi, aboard the bark—what’s wrong?”
Again was the story told—of the harrowing drift past the edge of the shoals and their present plight. “Take us off,” it was then—“for God’s sake, take us off!”
“We got no boat,” said Crump to that. “But wait, there’s that tug,” and motioning to the wheel, “Jog over to the tug.”