He
scrambled up rather scared, and consigning us with abominable words to
the "divvle." "You are.... Ough! You're a foul-mouthed beggar, Craik,"
grunted Mr. Baker. He answered, stuttering with indignation:--"Look
at 'em, sorr. The bloomin dirty images! laughing at a chum going
overboard. Call themselves men, too." But from the break of the poop the
boatswain called out:--"Come along," and Belfast crawled away in a hurry
to join him. The five men, poised and gazing over the edge of the poop,
looked for the best way to get forward. They seemed to hesitate. The
others, twisting in their lashings, turning painfull, stared with open
lips. Captain Allistoun saw nothing; he seemed with his eyes to hold the
ship up in a superhuman concentration of effort. The wind screamed loud
in sunshine; columns of spray rose straight up; and in the glitter of
rainbows bursting over the trembling hull the men went over cautiously,
disappearing from sight with deliberate movements.
They went swinging from belaying pin to cleat above the seas that beat
the half-submerged deck. Their toes scraped the planks. Lumps of green
cold water toppled over the bulwark and on their heads.
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