“No. His boat had begun leaking badly. It was too heavy to turn over, and before it sank he slipped into the sea and made for us. He had seen us before the fog shut down, and knew that we were becalmed. He’d just tied his shoes about his neck by the lacings and swum out with every rag of clothes on him—’cept his hat.”
“And why did he swim for your craft instead of to shore?”
“Said he was nearer the Sally when his boat took in so much water. And the tide was running out, no doubt. But it always did seem queer to me,” continued Tom.
“What was queer?” I asked the question without the slightest eagerness—indeed, I really was not interested much in what the old sailor was saying.
“Queer that such a smart-appearin’, intelligent gent should have got himself in such a fix.”
“As how?”
“To set sail in such a leaky old tub.”
“Oh!”
“And then, when he found she was sinking under him not to make for the shore.”
“What became of him?” I asked.