“You may sing t’other side of your mouth afore long,” bawled back the skipper. “We ain’t fur from the Cormorant Rocks; the wind p’r’aps will shove us on the ledge.”
“What, when we are just going home with full barrels?”
“The mackerel may be briled in Tophet for all we know.”
The skipper was at the helm; Osgood and he were in the radius of a lantern which revealed their faces to each other. Outside of that was pitch darkness; the rain drove in fierce slants against them, and the wind howled all round the sea.
The skipper did not look concerned, neither did Osgood; but they were both wondering which would first break over the Bonita, the light of morning or the sea.
“Them boys are asleep, I s’pose, wet to the bone?” the skipper yelled.
“Yes.”
“Let ’em sleep; there ain’t a lanyard loose.”
“What time must it be?”