“Good for you!” said Martin to that.
“Can you see the vessel?” asked John after another space.
“He’s giving out, and I see no vessel,” thought Martin, but answered cheerily, “Aye, I see her.”
“And how far away is she, and what’s she doing?”
Aloud Martin said, “Five or six miles, maybe, up to wind’ard; and she’s taking aboard all but the last dory, and there’s men gone aloft to look for us.” But under his breath, “And God forgive me if I go to my death with that lie on my lips; but ’tis no deeper than my lips—no deeper.”
Then they waited and waited, until John said, “Martin, I’ll have to go soon— I can’t hang on much longer.”
“Bide a while, Johnnie-boy—bide a while. Dory-mates we’ve been for many a trip—bide a while with me now, Johnnie.”
But Martin knew that it would be for but a little while for John—for them both, if help did not come soon. Scanning the sea for whatever hope the sea might give, he saw the trawl-line floating on the water. That was the line that ran from their anchor somewhere on the bottom to the buoy-keg to which John was clinging. If he could but get hold of that line he could draw John to the dory, with a better chance to talk to him—to put heart into him, for Johnnie was but a lad, no more than five and twenty.
To get the line, he would have to swim; and to swim any distance in that rising and already bad sea he would have to cast off most of his clothing. And with most of his clothing gone he would not last too long. Certainly if the vessel did not get them by dark, he would never live through the night. He would freeze to death—that he knew well. But could he live through the night, anyway? And even if he could— But what was the good of thinking all night over it? He pulled off his boots, untied his oilskins, hauled off his heavy outer woollens.
“Johnnie-boy, can you hang on a while longer?”