"Mebbe I could use one more hand mit the awnings on the promenade deck, eh?"
David was more than willing, and as he busied himself with stays and lashings he cast his eye aft until he could see the gray-haired skipper of the Pilgrim huddled limply in a chair, a forlorn picture of misery and weakness. David managed to work his way nearer until he was able to greet the haggard, brooding ship-master who was dwelling more with his great loss than with his wonderful escape, as he tremulously muttered in response:
"Ten good men and a fine vessel gone. My mate and four hands went when the masts fell. The others were caught forrud. And all I owned went with her, all but my little Margaret. If it wasn't for her I'd wish I was with the Pilgrim."
"Is she coming around all right?" asked David, eagerly. "We were afraid we were too late."
"She's too weak to talk much, but she smiled at me," and the ship-master's seamed face suddenly became radiant. "So you were in the boat. It was a fine bit of work, and your skipper ought to be proud of you, and proud of himself. That three-ringed oil circus he invented was new to me. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart."
The cadet grinned at thought of Captain Thrasher's "pride" in him, but said nothing about his own part in the rescue and inquired in an anxious tone:
"Does the doctor think she will be able to walk ashore? Had you been dismasted and awash very long?"
"Two days," was the slow reply. "But I don't want to think of it now. My mind kind of breaks away from its moorings when I try to talk about it, and my head feels awful queer. John Bracewell is my name. I live in Brooklyn when ashore. You must come over and see us when I feel livelier."
"But about the little girl," persisted David. "Is she your granddaughter?"