'Ah,' said the skipper. He asked no more about Balaam, but inquired if they could let him have some provisions. The answer he got was rather a blow. But it was not so much of a blow to him as the question had been to Briggs.
'We're starving already,' bellowed Briggs forlornly to the wind, and the sea and the wreck to loo'ard of him.
'When will you get sail on her, d' ye think?' asked Wood.
'To-morrow,' replied Briggs.
'Make for St. Paul,' said Wood; 'provisions are stored there, so I see in the Directory. We'll share 'em!'
'Thanks,' said the other speaking-trumpet. And then silence fell between these two partners of the sea in high misfortune.
'She's really not so badly crippled as we are,' said Wood.
And that was true; so true, that on the morrow the Cormorant crept out of the waste of tumbling seas and the gloom of the grey dawn and wallowed past them. Balaam was on deck dancing.
'Licking thunder out of you, you dog,' was his polite message of thanks to the Scanderbeg. 'Crippled or all ataunto, we can knock spots off of your old barge.'
'Oh, he's a gentleman,' said Wood. 'We won't reply.'