"
And all on board met in the simple North Sea fashion, and even the
patients had their say. Only Tom Lennard remained impenetrably silent;
he knew too much; he was a past-master in the mystery of mysteries. The
people used to say in Ravenna, "Behold, there is the man who has been in
hell," when they saw the awful face of Dante; poor, loose-brained Tom
Lennard had also seen that which may not be made known.
"There's some on 'em right ahead, skipper, I think. Joe Questor's there,
I know. He hasn't lost his new mainsail. See 'em, skipper?"
A few dark grey shadows like slim poles were all that Ferrier could see;
but the man was right, and when the deft fingers--those miraculous
fingers--of the seaman had set the mizen right, the smack was sailed
with every stitch on, until she buried herself in the sulky, slow bulges
of the ground swell. Ferrier said, "You see, skipper, it's better to
risk carrying away something, than to have some poor smashed customer
waiting helpless." And the skipper cracked on with every rag he could
show until, on a sealing frosty morning, he shot in among the dismal
remains of the gallant fleet.
Ferrier's vessel would have pleased certain lovers of the picturesque if
they had studied her appearance, but she was in a dreadful state from
the prosaic seaman's point of view. Every wave had been laid under
tribute by the frost, and a solid hillock had gathered forward; the
anchor was covered in like a candied fruit; the boat was entirely
concealed by a hard white mass; while as for the ropes--they cannot be
described fittingly.
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