They satisfied their hunger; then Boston, with a rusty iron pot from
the galley, to which he fastened the end of his rope, dipped up some of
the water from over the side. It was warm to the touch, and, aware
that they were in the Gulf Stream, they crawled under the musty bedding
in the cabin berths and slept through the night. In the morning there
was no promise of the easterly wind that Boston hoped would come to
blow them to port, and they secured their boat--reeving off
davit-tackles, and with the plug out, pulling it up, one end at a time,
while the water drained out through the hole in the bottom.
"Now, Boston," said the doctor, "here we are, as you say, on the outer
edge of the Gulf Stream, drifting out into the broad Atlantic at the
rate of four miles an hour. We've got to make the best of it until
something comes along; so you hunt through that store-room and see what
else there is to eat, and I'll examine the cargo. I want to know where
that acid went."
They opened all the hatches, and while Boston descended to the
lazarette, the doctor, with his trousers rolled up, climbed down the
notched steps in a stanchion. In a short time he came up with a yellow
substance in his hand, which he washed thoroughly with fresh water in
Boston's improvised draw-bucket, and placed in the sun to dry.
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