“Stand by!” he ordered. “Easy! Way enough! Let her run.”
The dory slackened speed, turned in obedience to the steering oar, and slid under the forequarter of the anchored vessel. Ellery, looking up, saw her name in battered gilt letters above his head—the San Jose.
“Stand by, Thoph!” shouted Charlie. “S'pose you can jump and grab her forechains? Hold her steady, Bill. Now, Thoph! That's the time!”
Thoph had jumped, seized the chains, and was scrambling aboard. A moment later he appeared at the rail amidships, a rope in his hand. The dory was brought alongside and made fast; then one after the other the men in the boat climbed to the brig's deck.
“Ahoy!” yelled Burgess. “All hands on deck! tumble up, you lubbers! Humph! She is abandoned, sure and sartin.”
“Yup,” assented Bill. “Her boats are gone. See? Guess that explains the longboat on the beach, Charlie.”
“Cal'late it does; but it don't explain why they left her. She ain't leakin' none to speak of, that's sure. Rides's light's a feather. Christmas! look at them decks; dirty hogs, whoever they was.”
The decks were dirty, and the sails, sloppily furled, were dirty likewise. The brig, as she rolled and jerked at her anchor rope, was dirty—and unkempt from stem to stern. To Ellery's mind she made a lonesome picture, even under the clear, winter sky and bright sunshine.
Thoph led the way aft. The cabin companion door was open and they peered down.
“Phew!” sniffed Burgess. “She ain't no cologne bottle, is she? Well, come on below and let's see what'll we see.”