“I don’t want no trains,” growled the invalid. “The boat ’ll be bad enough. I suppose there’s nothing coming our way, Tom?”
Tom turned his face eastward and shaded his eyes. “There’s a brig coming across the tide from the north,” he said. “Looks like a collier.” He pointed his telescope at the approaching vessel, and added: “She’s got two new cloths in her upper fore top-sail, one on each leech.”
The other man sat up eagerly. “What’s her trysail like, Tom?” he asked.
“Can’t see it,” replied Tom. “Yes, I can, now: it’s tanned. Why, that’ll be the old Utopia, Harry; she’s the only brig I know that’s got a tanned trysail.”
“Look here, Tom,” exclaimed the other, “If that’s the Utopia, she’s going to my home and I’m going aboard of her. Captain Mockett ’ll give me a passage, I know.”
“You oughtn’t to go until you’re relieved, you know, Barnett,” said Tom doubtfully; “it’s against regulations to leave your station.”
“Regulations be blowed!” exclaimed Barnett. “My leg’s more to me than the regulations. I don’t want to be a cripple all my life. Besides, I’m no good here, and this new chap, Brown, will be coming out presently. You run up the signal, Tom, like a good comrade, and hail the brig.”
“Well, it’s your look-out,” said Tom, “and I don’t mind saying that if I was in your place I should cut off home and see a doctor, if I got the chance.” He sauntered off to the flag-locker, and, selecting the two code-flags, deliberately toggled them onto the halyards. Then, as the brig swept up within range, he hoisted the little balls of bunting to the flagstaff-head and jerked the halyards, when the two flags blew out making the signal “Need assistance.”
Promptly a coal-soiled answering pennant soared to the brig’s main-truck; less promptly the collier went about, and, turning her nose down stream, slowly drifted stern-forwards towards the lighthouse. Then a boat slid out through her gangway, and a couple of men plied the oars vigorously.
“Lighthouse ahoy!” roared one of them, as the boat came within hail. “What’s amiss?”