Far away and to leeward rockets were going up, throwing a dim refulgence against the overcast sky.
“‘It’s the Western Pacific,’ he told me quietly. ‘She tried to cut corners and, I suppose, broke her propeller shafts.’”
Gorham glanced at me.
“As a matter of fact that was what had happened. But Owen seemed rather at a loss.
“‘I’ve got to go in and stand by,’ he said. ‘That goes without saying. But she’s within six miles of the rocks and the Shearwater can’t tow her out against this gale, and the notion of transferring passengers is hopeless.’
“‘What kind of line have you—the best?’ I demanded.
“The chief mate answered that question. The Shearwater had a new, nice, sweet, ten-inch manila. It might do.
“‘We’ll run in and have a look-see, anyway,’ said Harry in something of his old manner.
“So we ran in and a ticklish job it was. But presently we were within a quarter of a mile of the disabled steamship and the wireless got busy. The Western Pacific wanted to be towed out of danger—a matter of forty miles. Transferring anybody was out of the question, for the sea was terrific. No boat could live in it. Both captains were pretty anxious. Finally Owen ran the Shearwater right up under the lee of the Western Pacific and threw his searchlight on her. She was all right, sea anchor out and riding fairly easily. But when Harry Owen laid down his binoculars he was a different man. I know now what he saw. He made no further demur about attempting a tow and we spent an hour passing our new line, fixing chafing gear and so on.
“It was none of my business, you understand.