“Nothin’, lad, nothin’; I was only thinkin’ aloud; the wind’s freshenin’, Billy, an’ as you may have to sit a long spell at the tiller soon, try to go to sleep agin. You’ll need it, my boy.”
In spite of himself, Gaff’s tone contained so much pathos that Billy was roused by it, and would not again try to sleep.
“Do let me pull an oar, daddy,” he said earnestly.
“Not yet, lad, not yet. In a short time I will if the breeze don’t get stiffer.”
“Why don’t he pull a bit, daddy?” inquired Billy pointing with a frown at the figure that lay crouched up in the bow of the boat.
Just then a wave sent a wash of spray inboard and drenched the skipper, who rose up and cursed the sea.
“You’d better bale it out than curse it,” said Gaff sternly; for he felt that if there was to be anything attempted he must conquer his desperate companion.
The man drew his knife. Gaff, noticing the movement, leaped up, and catching hold of the tiller, which Billy handed to him with alacrity, faced his opponent.
“Now, Graddy,” he said, in the tone of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind, “we’ll settle this question right off. One of us must submit. If fair means won’t do, foul shall be used. You may be bigger than me, but I don’t think ye’re stronger: leastwise ye’ll ha’ to prove it. Now, then, pitch that knife overboard.”
Instead of obeying, Graddy hurled it with all his force into Gaff’s chest. Fortunately the handle and not the point struck him, else had the struggle been brief and decisive. As it was, the captain followed up his assault with a rush at his opponent, who met him with a heavy blow from the tiller, which the other received on his left arm, and both men closed in a deadly struggle. The little boat swayed about violently, and the curling seas came over her edge so frequently that Billy began to fear they would swamp in a few moments. He therefore seized the baling-dish, and began to bale for his life while the men fought.