"It is a baby," said Brand, in a curiously vacant way.
"A baby!" shrieked Jones, stretched out over the crane above their heads.
"A what-a?" roared the sailor, whose crudely developed nervous system was not proof against the jar of incredulity induced by this statement. Had Brand said "a tiger," he could not have exhibited greater concern.
"Yes, a baby—and it is living. I heard it cry," murmured the other, sitting down rather suddenly.
Indeed, a faint wail, suggestive of a kitten, now came from beneath the tumbled canvas quite near to Jim. But the Royal Navy does not encourage neurosis. The lighthouse-keeper felt that a minor crisis had arrived. It must be dealt with promptly.
The evil odor which still adhered to the boat told him that Brand had exchanged one Inferno for another, when he clambered out of the reach of the blindly vengeful shark.
He looked up to Jones.
"Lower away," he said, promptly. "Swing the derrick until I grab the tackle, and then hoist me aboard."
This was done. Ungainly in his walk, owing to his wounded limb, Jim, clinging to a rope, had the easy activity of a squirrel.
"Now, lower a jug with some brandy. He's dead beat," he added.