"Now you go and stand right under all that's left of the Stars and Stripes," said the Skipper to Cynthia.
"I can't see how she's to get there," said I. "The rail's almost under water, and it's very slippery."
"Can't help it. That's where you've got to stand.—Here, Bo's'n, I'll hold the painter, while you help Miss Archer over to the mast."
"I can row her over in the boat," said the Bo's'n, "and come back for her husband, sir. There's hardly room for two, but if they stand close I guess they'll manage it."
The Bo's'n's remarks were somewhat premature, but I held my peace and did not look at Cynthia.
Accordingly, Cynthia was rowed over to that part of the taffrail which showed a few inches of wet surface above the water line, and the Bo's'n, having deposited her there, returned for me.
We had to stand close, indeed. We could hardly hear the Skipper as he began the service. He seemed so far away, standing with Lacelle, Cynthia's maid of honour, while my best man sat in the boat and kept her stern close to the wreck by backing water.
I placed the little thread of gold on her finger at what I thought was the right moment. I was like a lad with a new penny to spend. It burned a hole in my pocket.
"Ahoy there!" shouted the Skipper, breaking into the service and hailing me as if I were a foreign barkentine, "it ain't time yet."
"It's my time," said I.