Making sure that this was fast, he went
down.
"Doc," he said, as he squeezed the water from his limp cork helmet and
flattened it on the table, "have you any objections to being rescued by
some craft going into Havana?"
"I have--decided objections."
"So have I; but this wind is blowing us there--sideways. Now, such a
blow as this, at this time of year, will last three days at least, and
I've an idea that it'll haul gradually to the south, and west towards
the end of it. Where'll we be then? Either piled up on one of the
Bahama keys or interviewed by the Spaniards. Now I've been thinking of
a scheme on deck. We can't get back to camp for a while--that's
settled. This iron hull is worth something, and if we can take it into
an American port we can claim salvage. Key West is the nearest, but
Fernandina is the surest. We've got a stump of a foremast and a rudder
and a compass. If we can get some kind of sail up forward and bring
her 'fore the wind, we can steer any course within thirty degrees of
the wind line."
"But I can't steer. And how long will this voyage take? What will we
eat?"
"Yes, you can steer--good enough. And, of course, it depends on food,
and water, too.
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