The old man, himself again, was now steering, giving us Big Jones to bear at the oars. As we drew on we made out the loom of the vessel's sails—a big ship under topsails only, and sailing slowly to the west. We pulled down wind to cross her course, shouting together as we rowed. Would they never hear? … Again!… Again!
Suddenly there came a hail from the ship, a roar of orders, rattle of blocks and gear, the yards swung round and she layed up in the wind, while the ghostly glare of a blue light lit up the sea around.
A crowd of men were gathered at the waist, now shouting and cheering as we laboured painfully into the circle of vivid light. Among them a big man (huge he looked in that uncanny glare) roared encouragement in hoarse gutturals.
Old Schenke? The Hedwig Rickmers?
Aye—Schenke! But a different Schenke to the big, blustering, overbearing "Square-head" we had known in 'Frisco. Schenke as kind as a brother—a brother of the sea indeed. Big, fat, honest Schenke, passing his huge arm through that of our broken old skipper, leading him aft to his own bed, and silencing his faltering story by words of cheer. "Ach, du lieber Gott! It is all right, no? All right, Cabtin, now you come on board. Ah know all 'bout it!… Ah pick de oder boat up in de morning, und dey tells me. You come af mit me, Cabtin.… Goot, no?"
* * * * * *
"Ninety-six days, Schenke, and here we are at the mouth of the Channel!" Old Burke had a note of regret in the saying. "Ninety-six days! Sure, this ship o' yours can sail. With a bit o' luck, now, ye'll be in Falmouth under the hundred."
"So. If de vind holds goot. Oh, de Hedwig Rickmers is a goot sheep, no? But if Ah dond't get de crew of de poor lettle Hilda to work mein sheep, Ah dond't t'ink ve comes home so quick as hundert days, no?'"
"God bless us, man. Shure, it's the least they cud do, now. An' you kaaping' us in food an' drink an' clothes, bedad—all the time."
"Vat Ah do, Cabtin. Ah leaf you starfe, no?"