Duncan Moit and Uncle Naboth kept to the cabin and were equally unconcerned. The latter was an old voyager and realized that it was best to be philosophical; the former had never been at sea before and had no idea of our danger.
On the third morning of this wild and persistent tempest the boatswain came to where Ned and I clung to the rigging and said:
“She’s leaking, sir.”
“Badly?”
“Pretty bad, sir.”
“Get the pumps manned, Ned,” said I; “I’ll go below and investigate.”
I crawled into the hold through the forecastle cubby, as we dared not remove the hatches. I took along a sailor to carry the lantern, and we were not long in making the discovery that the Gladys H. was leaking like a sieve. Several of the seams that Mr. Harlan had caused to be calked so carefully had reopened and the water was spurting through in a dozen streams.
I got back to my cabin and made a careful examination of the chart. According to my calculations we could not be far from the coast of Panama. If I was right, another six hours would bring us to the shore; but I was not sure of my reckoning since that fearful gale had struck us. So the question whether or no the ship could live six hours longer worried me considerably, for the pumps were of limited capacity and the water was gaining on us every minute.
I told Uncle Naboth our difficulty, and Duncan Moit, who stood by, listened to my story with lively interest.
“Will you try to beach her, Sam?” enquired my uncle, with his usual calmness.