“Not much, Davy—at least not to speak of; only I’m a bit stunned. Just let me lie here. One o’ the North Star’s men can take my oar.”
There was no time for delicate attentions or inquiries in the circumstances, for the wreck of the mainmast had already given the boat, strong though it was, some damaging lunges as it shot wildly to and fro in the mad sea.
“All there?” demanded the coxswain of the saved men, who had been rapidly counting their numbers.
“All here, thank God!” answered Captain Millet.
“Haul off, lads!”
The men laid hold of the hawser, and hauled with a will—not a moment too soon, for the wreck was breaking up, and the sea around was strewn with heavy timbers. Having hauled the boat up to her anchor, the latter was got in, and the oars were shipped. These last being made fast to the boat with strong lines, had not been lost in all the turmoil, though two of them were broken. They were replaced, however, by spare oars; and then the lifeboat, being pulled out of danger, hoisted her scrap of sail and scudded away gaily before the wind for the shore with her rescued freight.
Of course the news spread like wildfire that the lifeboat had come in with the crew of the wrecked North Star—some said the whole crew, others, part of the crew; for verbal reports of this kind never do coincide after travelling a short way.
“Jeff, I must go straight to my sister, and be first wi’ the news,” said Captain Millet on landing. “You said my Rosebud is with her just now?”
“Yes, I’ll go with ’ee, captain.”
“Come along, then, lad; but I fear you’ve got hurt. You’re sure it isn’t broken ribs?”