For an instant the girl's courage faltered, and she felt as if she would faint; but her innate strength of character supported her.
"Something must be done for him at once," she said to herself, as she called to some of the men to come and help her. They picked the Captain up and carried him to his cabin, where they laid him gently on a cushioned locker.
"What on earth'll—we do—now?" gasped the Captain. "I'm laid out—for the rest—of the voyage."
"Oh no, father," said Mary, with a cheerfulness that she did not feel; "you'll be all right again before this gale is over, and we'll pull the Bunker Hill through that all right. Won't we, men?"
"Ay, ay, miss; that we will."
"God bless you, my child," gasped the Captain; "and you too, men; but—I've got two—broken ribs here."
They were all silent for a few minutes, while the cabin reeled from side to side, and the hollows of the vessel were full of groans from the straining of her timbers.
"Father," said Mary at length, "don't worry about the bark, anyhow. You've got a good crew, and they'll take care of the bark."
"Yes, sir, Cap'n Kent," said one of the men; "we're mortal sorry for to see you done up, sir, for you've treated us good, an' we knows it."