“Some tide that!” observed old John Gould, and his voice was that of a connoisseur in tides.
“Yes,” admitted the Skipper. “But go aloft, one of you—you, John—and see if you can see anybody comin’. There’ll be somebody down on us soon. And the rest of you stand by to put sail on her. It’ll be too much to expect that single hawser to hold her. And go aft, you Dick, and take a soundin’.”
Came John’s voice from aloft. “Can’t see half a length away.”
“All right, come down.” He turned toward the stern. “What water?”
“Twenty? Drifting as fast as that? Put sail on her—the big trys’l first. Jib? No, not yet. Give this one too much headsail and she’ll be into the hummocks before you could half put the wheel down on her.”
“Nineteen fathom.”
“Nineteen? All right, boy, keep soundin’, and loose your jib now, fellows.”
“Eighteen fathom, Skipper.”
“Eighteen fathom? Man, I think I hear it roar,” observed one.