He spoke precisely as if he was receiving a call from some favorite guests. The tone pained the boys, and distressed them greatly.
“Captain,” said Bruce, hurriedly, “the Antelope’s sinking. A moment more and you’ll be lost. Come with us in the boat. Come.”
And, laying his hand on the captain’s arm, he sought to drag him away.
But the captain quietly though firmly, disengaged himself.
“Excuse me, young sir,” said the venerable navigator, very politely; “but I’m captain of this here craft; an, being sich, I ain’t got no call to leave her till the last man. You git to your boat, an I’ll retire when the time comes.”
The captain spoke with dignity. He announced a principle which involves the highest duty of every commander of a ship, and the boys knew it. His dignity overawed them.
“But come now, captain,” said Bart, “there isn’t a moment to lose.”
“I ain’t, a goin ever to hev it written on my tume,” said the captain, in a calm voice, “that me—Captain Corbet—ever desarted his post, or forgot his umble dooty as commander of a vessel. No, the Antelope’ll see that, her captain’s jist as much principle an honor as any of them swell navigators that sail in clipper ships over the boosom of the briny deep.”
At this moment there was a long-drawn, bubbling, gurgling sound, that came up from the hold of the Antelope, and startled the boys exceedingly.
“Come, come, captain,” cried Bruce. “She’s sinking now. There isn’t a moment to spare.”