“All ready, sir; but I doubt if they’d live long,” he replied. “However, this ’ere old hulk seems to be doin’ pretty decent. She lies low, bein’ so heavy loaded, an’ lets the waves break over her. That saves her a good deal of strain, Sam. If she don’t spring a-leak an’ the cargo holds steady, we’ll get through all right.”
“Tried the pumps?”
“Yes; only bilge, so far.”
“Very good. How long will the gale last?”
“Days, perhaps, in these waters. There’s no rule to go by, as I knows of. It’ll just blow till it blows itself out.”
He went on deck again, keeping an eye always on the ship and trying to carry just enough canvas to hold her steady.
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?”