"Depends on the other fellow; if——"
"Think we might weather the nubbles, Mr. Jones?" And then, before I could answer, "Ready about!" he roared.
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"He's bound to catch us on this tack," confided I into the funnel as I ran to my station.
The men ran willingly to obey the orders; all but Tomkins.
"Blank you, Tomkins! why don't you move? Got rheumatism, or what? Why don't those sails fill? Darn it all! We're in irons. No, there she goes! We're forging ahead. Think I'll run for that cove when we tack again. Might stand 'em off with two four-poun——"
The Skipper was interrupted. He stood with open mouth, from which no sound issued. We were all, as we stood, swayed slowly forward, then as slowly backward, with a motion that made me sick and dizzy. There was a shaking of the hull, an ominous creaking of the masts, as the Yankee Blade careened slightly and stood still. At that moment a shot struck the foremast, cutting it in two. It fell to leeward, a mass of splintered wood and tangled rigging. The crashing of the top into the water sent the foam flying over us.
"He wants you to stop," said Cynthia.
"Well, haven't I?" said the Skipper dryly.
"Yes, you have certainly," answered Cynthia in a tone of conviction. The Skipper turned on Cynthia in a sudden rage.