Kenneth fired three more lights from the Verey pistol before giving up hope of aid by this means.
“Seems a bit of a wash-out, Wilson,” he remarked.
“ ‘Fraid so, sir,” agreed the coxswain. “Might be a jolly sight worse, though. It strikes me that killick’s got a firm hold now, so all we can do is to stand by till daylight or until this snowstorm blows over.”
“The officers waiting on Mautby jetty will be feeling pretty sick of it,” observed the midshipman.
Wilson snorted.
“If officers take it into their heads to go on the beach on a night like this—even though it’s Christmas Eve—it’s up to them to make the best of it. We’ve troubles of our own enough. Look here, sir, suppose you turn into the cabin for a spell. It’s pretty parky out here.”
It certainly was cold. Except for the fore-deck that was being continuously swept by the seas, the picket-boat was white with frozen snow. Even the side lights were blocked by a mixture of ice and snow. To go for’ard without hanging on tooth and nail was to risk slipping on the deck and pitching overboard.
Kenneth’s sou’wester and the front of his oilskin coat were white with frozen snow. His face smarted painfully under the onslaught of the sleet, while by contrast his gloved hands were numbed by the cold.
Undoubtedly it was a great temptation to take his coxswain’s advice and shelter in the little cabin immediately for’ard of the cockpit, but he resisted it. If the coxswain and bowman could stick it it was up to him to share the discomforts with his crew.
“I’m all right, really,” he protested, although his chattering teeth belied the statement. “I’d better hang on here just in case. I say: is there any grub on board?”