“Yes; goin’ ahead like a race-horse—head fust, tail fust, sideways, end on, and every kind o’ way that a floatin’ craft kin move.”
“Where are we drifting to?”
“Down to Blomidon.”
“Blomidon!” cried Mr. Long, aghast.
“Yes; an’ farther too. It’ll be lucky if we don’t find ourselves out in the Bay of Fundy before long.”
“But can’t you do something? Can’t you sail for some harbor?”
“Jest what I’m a pinin’ to do, on’y I can’t come it, nohow. Ef I had a steam tug-boat I’d clap a line on board her, an’ get into a place of refooge; but bein’ as there isn’t any, we’ve got to drift.”
“Why don’t you anchor?”
“Anchor?” cried Captain Corbet, in surprise. “Why, the anchor’s broke.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Long, in bitter vexation, “haven’t you got something—no sweeps?”