In the tone and look of the man there was something extraordinary. His words were meant to suggest imminent peril, and yet his voice was shallow as that of a burgh bellman crying an auction sale, and his eyes had more interest in the horizon that his mate still searched with the prospect-glass than in the spate of bilge that gulped upon the deck.
Bilge did I say? Heavens! it was bilge no more, but the pure sea-green that answered to the clanking pump. It was no time for idle wonder at the complacence of the skipper; I flew to the break and threw my strength into the seaman's task. “Clank-click, clank-click”—the instrument worked reluctantly as if the sucker moved in slime, and in a little the sweat poured from me.
“How is she now, Campbell?” asked Risk, as the carpenter came on deck.
“Three feet in the hold,” said Campbell airily, like one that had an easy conscience.
“Good lord, a foot already!” cried Risk, and then in a tone of sarcasm, “Hearty, lads, hearty there! A little more Renfrewshire beef into it, Mr. Greig, if you please.”
At that I ceased my exertion, stood back straight and looked at the faces about me. There was only one man in the company who did not seem to be amused at me, and that was Horn, who stood with folded arms, moodily eying the open sea.
“You seem mighty joco about it,” I said to Risk, and I wonder to this day at my blindness that never read the whole tale in these hurried events.
“I can afford to be,” he said quickly; “if I gang I gang wi' clean hands,” and he spat into the seawater streaming from the pump where the port-watch now were working with as much listlessness as the men they superseded.
To the taunt I made no reply, but moved after Horn who had gone forward with his hands in his pockets.
“What does this mean, Horn?” I asked him. “Is the vessel in great danger?”