“Lower away,” and he and O’Neil swung themselves on board the life-boat as she dropped evenly and quickly toward the black sea beneath her.
Phil seized the handle of the steering oar in both hands, motioning O’Neil away. The boat shivered as she struck the lumpy sea.
“Sit here, O’Neil, and hang on to my legs,” shouted Phil at the top of his lungs, through the roaring of the gale, as the boat shot ahead on her life-line, while with the steering oar he swung her stern in toward the white wall of the battle-ship towering above them.
The life-line sheered the boat clear of the menacing ship.
“Let go,” shouted the youth.
“Give way! Bend to it, men,” he cautioned, turning the life-boat’s prow toward the flicker of light appearing periodically on the crest of a wave and quickly disappearing down into its deep trough.
Straight-backed and supple the six oarsmen sent the long, narrow boat over the seas that seemed ready to engulf her.
“Never mind me,” shouted Phil to O’Neil, bracing his legs firmly against the stern boards. “Stand by forward there, we shall be at the life-buoy in a moment.”
O’Neil glanced with grave concern at the midshipman.
“Aye, aye, sir. Keep your weather eye open, sir,” he cautioned. “If you go overboard with them rubber boots on, you’ll go to the bottom like a shot.”