"Aye, aye, b'ye. Aye, aye," said the broken old
man, seeming without understanding.
Jones ceased trying to rouse him, and, running out the steering oar,
called on us to haul the sea-anchor aboard. We lay to our oars,
listening for a further gunfire.
Whooo-o. . . . Boom-m-m.
A rocket! They were looking for us then! The pinnace must have been
picked up! A cheer--what a cheer!--came brokenly from our lips; and we
lashed furiously at the oars, steering to where a glare in the mist had
come with the last report.
Roused by the thrash of our oars, the old man sat up. "Whatt now,
b'ye? Whatt now?"
"Ship firin' rockets, sir," said Jones. "Rockets . . . no mistake."
As he spoke, another coloured streamer went flaming through the eastern
sky. "Give way, there! We'll miss her if she's running south! Give
way, all!" The glare of the rocket put heart into our broken old
skipper. "Steady now, b'yes," he said, with something of his old
enthusiasm.
We laboured steadily at the oars, but our strength was gone. The sea
too, that we had thought moderate when lying to sea-anchor, came at us
broadside on and set our light boat to a furious dance.
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