The men merely
gaped and observed the miraculous revival with faith unutterable. Then
our young man bade good-bye, merely saying, "You'll keep your berth for
a couple of days, and then signal us if you want me."
The sky was ragged and wild with the tattered banners of cloud; the sea
was inky dark, and the wind had an iron ring. The Mission vessel had
dropped to leeward of the fishing smack, and the boat had about three
hundred yards to go. But what a three hundred yards! Great black hills
filled up the space and flowed on, leaving room for others equally big
and equally black. The sides of these big hills were laced with lines of
little jumping hillocks, and over all the loud wind swept, shearing off
tearing storm-showers of spray. An ugly three hundred yards!
"Well, how is it now, skipper?"
"Neck or nothing, sir. You can stop here if you like."
"Oh, no! Mr. Lennard would have apoplexy. Let us try. It can't be worse
than it was in coming."
"Good-bye, sir. I'm sorry my comrades hadn't the risk instead of you.
I'll take good care you don't attend one of _them_."
Home, happiness, fame! The face of Marion Dearsley. Images of peace and
love.--All these things passed through Lewis Ferrier's mind as he
prepared for that black journey. A dark wave swung the boat very high.
"Will she turn turtle?" No. But she was half full. "Bale away, sir."
Whirr, went the wind; the liquid masses came whooping on. One hundred
yards more would have made all safe, though the boat three times pitched
the oars from between the tholepins.
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