The main-sail had jibed and then bellied out again in the same way as the topsail above it had done; and when the man fell, a kind Providence watching over him caused it to catch him in its folds, and then gently drop him into the long-boat above the deck-house below, right in the midst of the captain’s pigs there stowed—thus breaking his fall, so that he absolutely escaped unhurt, with the exception of a slight shaking and of course a biggish fright at falling.
“Who is the man?” sang out Captain Gillespie as soon as some of the hands had clambered up on top of the deck-house and released their comrade from the companionship of the pigs, who were grunting and squealing at his unexpected descent in their midst. “Who is that man?”
“Joe Fergusson,” cried out one of the men. “It’s Joe Fergusson, sir.”
Captain Gillespie was bothered, thinking he could not hear aright.
“Joe Fergusson?” he called back. “I don’t know any man of that name, or anything like it, who signed articles with me, and is entered on the ship’s books. Pass the word forrud for the bosun—where is he?”
“Here, sorr,” cried out Tim Rooney, who of course was close at hand, having bounded to the scene of action the moment he heard the man’s wild weird shriek as he fell, arriving just in time to see his wonderful escape. “Here I am, sorr.”
“Who is the man that fell?”
“Our new hand, sorr.”
“New hand?” repeated Captain Gillespie after him, as perplexed as ever. “What new hand?”
“Joe Fergusson, sorr. Himsilf and no ither, sure, sorr.”