When this reply was finished, the vessels were too far apart for further intercourse.
“Humph!” ejaculated Gunter, “one o’ the psalm-singin’ lot, I suppose.”
“If it’s the psalm-singin’,” said Spivin, “as makes Jim Frost bear his troubles wi’ good temper, an’ thank God for foul weather an’ fair, the sooner you take to it the better for yourself.”
“Ay, an’ for his mates,” added Zulu, with a broad grin.
“Shove out the boat now, lads,” said the skipper.
At this order the capacious and rather clumsy boat, which had hitherto lain on the deck of the Evening Star like a ponderous fixture, was seized by the crew. A vigorous pull at a block and tackle sent it up on the side of the smack. A still more vigorous shove by the men—some with backs applied, some with arms, and all with a will—sent it stern-foremost into the sea. It took in a few gallons of water by the plunge, but was none the worse for that.
At the same moment Zulu literally tumbled into it. No stepping or jumping into it was possible with the sea that was running. Indeed the fishermen of the North Sea are acrobats by necessity, and their tumbling is quite as wonderful, though not quite so neat, as that of professionals. Perchance if the arena in which the latter perform were to pitch about as heavily as the Evening Star did on that occasion, they might be beaten at their own work by the fishermen!
Zulu was followed by Ned Spivin, while Gunter, taking a quick turn of the long and strong painter round a belaying-pin, held on.
The Evening Star was now lying-to, not far from the steam-carrier. Her boat danced on the waves like a cork, pitching heavily from side to side, with now the stern and now the bow pointing to the sky; at one moment leaping with its gunwale above the level of the smack’s bulwarks; at the next moment eight or ten feet down in the trough of the waves; never at rest for an instant, always tugging madly at its tether, and often surging against the vessel’s side, from actual contact with which it was protected by strong rope fenders. But indeed the boat’s great strength of build seemed its best guarantee against damage.
To one unaccustomed to such work it might have seemed utterly impossible to put anything whatever on board of such a pitching boat. Tying a mule-pack on the back of a bouncing wild horse may suggest an equivalent difficulty to a landsman. Nevertheless the crew of the Evening Star did it with as much quiet determination and almost as much speed as if there was no sea on at all. Billy and Trevor slid the trunks to the vessel’s side; the mate and Gunter lifted them, rested them a moment on the edge; Zulu and Spivin stood in the surging boat with outstretched arms and glaring eyes. A mighty swing of the boat suggested that the little craft meant to run the big one down. They closed, two trunks were grappled, let go, deposited, and before the next wave swung them alongside again, Spivin and Zulu were glaring up—ready for more—while Joe and Gunter were gazing down—ready to deliver.