“How is it down below, Art?” Frank inquired cheerfully. “How is it with the ‘land-lubber lying down below, below’?”
“I’m below, all right.” The voice was weak but vehement. “Still, I object to being called a land-lubber. I’ll show you fellows one of these days that I’m as good a sailor as any of you.”
“Art is getting touchy,” said Kenneth. “He’ll be all right soon, I am willing to bet.”
“Will you look at that!” exclaimed Clyde, who had been gazing forward for some time. “Just wait until I get my gun.”
He pointed to a black object that was bobbing up and down in the brown flood. It looked like an animal swimming against the strong current. While Clyde went below, Ransom shifted his helm in order to get nearer, and before he realized it they were bearing down on the object at terrific speed. The yacht, going with the current, was making almost ten miles an hour.
“Sheer off, for heaven’s sake, Ken!” sang out Frank. “Quick!” Then as the yacht yawed to starboard she passed the black thing which had excited Clyde’s hunting instincts.
“Gee! you ought to know a ‘sawyer’ when you see it, by this time.” Frank’s tone was full of superior disgust.
“How did you find out what a sawyer was, Mr. Smarty?” Clyde was trying to conceal his gun behind him, and he looked foolish. “What is it, any way? I bet you don’t know.”
“Don’t I, just! It’s a piece of timber, one end of which, water-logged, sinks to the bottom and is partly buried; the current overcomes the buoyancy of the wood from time to time and causes the upper end to sink; this makes the motion like a man sawing wood—hence the name.”
“Thanks, Professor.” Clyde made a mock bow. “But all the same, the captain himself didn’t know what it was, and pretty near punched the boat’s bottom full of holes.”