The taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult as getting him into it had been. Joe, Luke, Spivin, and Zulu, as well as Billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs’ claws or grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. David Bright’s extended and helpless form was held in position by Gunter. When it came within reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and David was safe, though still held in suspense over the deep.
But that was only for a moment. A good heave placed him on the vessel’s rail, and another laid him on the deck.
“Brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!” muttered Gunter, whose anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety.
“He’s fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old grampus,” cried Billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
“Come, Billy,” said Joe Davidson, kindly, “lend a hand, boy, to carry him below. It’s a sad break-down, but remember—he’s not past redemption. Come.”
Four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the effects of his debauch.