“Oh, Skipper!” came from aloft again.
“Near’s I can make out, there’s four or five vessels bearin’ down——”
“Close by?”
“Pretty close—yes, sir.”
“Wait— I’ll be with you.” Aloft climbed the Skipper. ’Twas a fight to go aloft, such was the force of the wind and so wildly swayed the rigging of the old Pantheon.
From the deck the crew gazed after the Skipper till they could see his swaying shoulders no more. Soon he came flying down, and after him came John, both by way of the snow-slushed, slippery halyards.
“Cut!” roared the Skipper before he had fairly hit the deck—“and at the wheel there, let her pay off.”
“Cut—cut!” Away went the twelve-inch rope in stubborn convolutions through the hawse-holes. Around came the Pantheon, and by her bow came driving a great white shadow. White sail against white snow on a black night she came driving on, and only a memory of a dim light to mark her when the shadow of the sails could not be made out.
“No side-lights—draggin’?”