Part 32 (1/2)

”No, I don't, my lad. If I had, I would have opened my mouth to onced.

Here, let me come by; them two's going to sleep. I want to fix that stick up again. I won't be able to give the schooner a tow this time.

He's beat me, but I'll do it yet.”

He set to work getting out the broken stump, which was standing jagged above the thwart, and looked at it thoughtfully.

”Make a nice bit o' firewood for the old woman,” he said, as he laid it down forward before beginning to examine the broken end of the mast.

”Guess yew arn't got such a thing as a saw in your pocket, hev you, either on yew?” he continued, with a grim smile. ”Not yew! One never has got what one wants in one's pocket. Lend a hand here, Elim, never mind about them stays. Don't shove: them sharp ends 'll go through the bottom. If they do, one of you youngsters 'll hev to putt your leg through the hole to keep the water out. Now, Zeke, never mind the sail.

Hyste away.”

Between them they raised the broken mast, which was now about three feet shorter, tightened the ropes, and, just as the schooner was coming back on the next tack, to pa.s.s us about half a mile away, the master said--

”They ought to see as we're in trouble, but I 'spect they're nearly all asleep. Here, all on yew be ready, and when I cry, _hail_! open your shoulders, and all together give 'em a good _ahoy_! Not yet, mind--not till I speak. Lot o' little footy squeaks arn't no good; we must have a big shout. Guess we shan't haul up the sail till we've tried whether they'll lay to.”

The schooner came nearer and nearer, with her sails growing so plain that even the ropes that held them glistened white in the moonlight, and looking so beautiful as she glided smoothly onward, that for the moment I forgot our predicament; but I was roused up at last by the master's voice.

”All together!” he said, quietly. ”Hail!”

Our voices rose high in a discordant shout.

”Now again,” cried the master.

Our voices rose once more, and then another shout broke the stillness of the soft night air; but the schooner glided on, her sails hiding everything, so that we did not see a soul on board save the man at the wheel, whose white face gleamed for a few moments as it emerged from the black shadow cast by the great mainsail.

”They're all asleep,” cried the master, fiercely. ”Here, lay holt, Zeke. I say, squire, take holt o' the tiller, and keep her straight.

Hyste away, Elim, we'll show 'em the rope's end yet.”

”Look!” cried Gunson, quickly.

”Eh? Why, they did hear us,” cried the master, in a disappointed tone.

”Why didn't they hail back? Shan't show him the rope's end arter all.”

For the schooner glided slowly round till she was head to wind; and instead of her sails curving out in the moonlight, they were now dark, save where they s.h.i.+vered and flapped to and fro, so that a part of the canvas glistened now and then in the light.

”Ahoy!” came faintly from her decks, for she was a quarter of a mile away; and in a few minutes a boat dropped over the side with a splash, and four men began to row toward us.

”There you are,” said the master, grimly; ”they'll take you aboard now.

Going up the Fraser, arn't you?”

”Yes, I hope so,” said Gunson, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, and then handed some money to the old man, who took it with a dissatisfied grunt, and turned it over in his rough hand.

”What's this?” he said roughly; ”ten dollars. There, we said five.

Take them back.” He held out half the money. ”No, no: bargain's a bargain. Lay holt.”

”But the broken spar?”