"No, it ain't," said Jack Hart boldly.
That a foremast hand should dare to shove his oar in, almost cowed the poor old Guffin. It was something out of nature.
"It ain't no time for jawbation," insisted Hart, about whom the others had gathered. "It's time for thinkin' out the politics of the situation, and if I'm not mistaken we shall be able to walk ashore by the morning, and there won't be no ship for any one to command—so what's the use of jaw? I say get up stores, eh, Mackenzie?"
"Don't ask me," said old Mac. "I was thinkin' that mighty soon we'd be able to settle that question about the buildin' of the Potluck."
And as by this time Jones was calming down and was rather inclined to cry, Lampert came up to the restive crowd.
"You dry up, Hart," he said roughly. "Until the ship's broken up, you're on the articles. Say another word and I'll break your jaw."
"Yes, sir," said Hart respectfully.
Until dawn they loafed about the deck and in the cabin and foc'sle, discussing whether they were on one of the Crozets or what, and whether they would stay long there, and if so what, and so on.
And just as the dawn broke over the island they got an awful surprise. They saw a man standing on the low cliff on about a level with the jagged splinters of the fore-topmast where it had gone short in the cap.
"The bloomin' hisland's in'abited," cried a foremast hand, and every one rushed forward to interview the gesticulating stranger.