“How are you going to get back? The men can sail a course, but who is to lay it out? Turner? No Turner ever knew anything about a ship but what it made for him.”
“Turner is sick. Look here, Singleton, you want to get back as much as we do, or more. Wouldn’t you be willing to lay a course, if you were taken out once a day? Burns is doing it, but he doesn’t pretend to know much about it, and—we have the bodies.”
But he turned ugly again, and refused to help unless he was given his freedom, and that I knew the crew would not agree to.
“You’ll be sick enough before you get back!” he snarled.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WHITE LIGHT
With the approach of night our vigilance was doubled. There was no thought of sleep among the crew, and, with the twilight, there was a distinct return of the terror of the morning.
Gathered around the wheel, the crew listened while Jones read evening prayer. Between the two houses, where the deck was roped off, Miss Lee was alone, pacing back and-forward, her head bent, her arms dropped listlessly.
The wind had gone, and the sails hung loose over our heads. I stood by the port rail. Although my back was toward Miss Lee, I was conscious of her every movement; and so I knew when she stooped under the rope and moved lightly toward the starboard rail.
Quick as she was, I was quicker. There was still light enough to see her face as she turned when I called to her:
“Miss Lee You must not leave the rope.”