"We could work around," said Jack Jepson, who had come up on deck after seeing the first mate comfortably bestowed in his berth. "We could work around and——"
"Who's in charge of this ship; you or me?" snapped Captain Brisco.
"You are, of course," was the quiet answer.
"Well then, have the goodness to keep still and let me manage matters. I'm giving orders—not you!"
Poor Jack slunk back, smarting under the undeserved rebuke.
"I don't care who is in command!" cried Mr. Pertell. "This is my ship and you're under my orders, Captain Brisco. I order you to pick up that motorboat!"
"And I tell you we can't do it! They've got to come to us, we can't go to them. They're not dependent on the wind as we are. They can travel any direction they like, and they'll have to head for us."
"But we must make some effort to find them!" cried the manager. "It would be wicked—criminal not to."
"Look here!" cried Captain Brisco. "You are the owner of this schooner, it is true, and as such you are my superior, but the law gives me supreme command of this craft at sea, unless I'm dead, or otherwise deposed. And I tell you I won't risk all these lives by trying to beat back in the teeth of this wind, to pick up a motorboat. It would be worse than criminal—worse than wicked to do it. It would endanger all on board!"
There was some logic in that. Even Mr. Pertell, exercised as he was by the threatened danger to Russ, could appreciate that.