Chapter Fourteen.
Jim and I carried off against our will.
“Shall we be seen, Jim, think you?” I asked, after we had gazed at the ship some minutes without speaking.
“Ain’t quite certain,” answered Jim, in a sad voice; “if I thought so, I could sing for joy, that I could, but the ship’s a long way off, and maybe she’ll haul closer to the wind and pass us by.”
“Oh, Jim! Let us pray that she’ll not do that,” I exclaimed. “She’s standing, as far as I can make out, directly towards us, and why should we fancy that we are to be deserted? Cheer up, Jim! Cheer up!”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” said Jim. “Still we must not make too certain. If she doesn’t pick us up another vessel may. We are in the track of ships going up and down Channel, and that’s one comfort.”
Jim did not say this all at once, for he stopped sometimes to take a look at the stranger, and every now and then a sea washed up and made us close our mouths. Still the seas were every instant growing less and less, and we at last unlashed ourselves that we might move about a little and stretch our limbs.
We were on the top, it must be remembered, so that we did not run the same risk of falling off as we should have done if we had had only the mast to support us.
With straining eyes we watched the ship. Still she held the same course on which she had been steering when we first saw her, and which was bringing her nearer and nearer to us.