The schooner wallowed in the trough of the quick sea that had followed the squall’s first fury, the sorriest mass of confusion imaginable. It was a positive sin.
The masts, still hanging to the shrouds which hadn’t all parted, thumped their menace against the planking of the side; the main boom, still fast to its sheet, ground at the mahogany rail as it sawed between goose-neck and traveler.
The canvas, mountains of it, flapped, rolled, and puffed frantically, a matted mass of cordage to leeward, wire stays of stiff crinkle, turnbuckles, spreaders, and blocks.
It was a time that called for quick action.
And quick action it got. I never saw greater promptness. Stroth was fairly beside himself, and his emotion was—joy!
“Oho!” he bellowed, in positive happiness, the very instant we righted to an even keel, “here we have it now—and something like!”
Then he was all over the boat, roaring orders in a tone of voice of which I never would have believed him capable.
And, quick to the inspiration of that personality, the men jumped to the task of clearing away.
“Toss me that ax!” cried the owner to old Steve, and he himself went at a steel stay that held a spar from moving.
“Tie first, then cut!” He had a sharp way with him that made you start an instant before you sprang to the task. I felt the impulse of it, though my place was certainly to soothe the girl. Then he caught a look at me over his shoulder, and shouted: