own before the coming of the wave that was to check her way.
In a moment it would be over us. The Mate leapt to the ladder, but, as
he balanced, we saw one of the men in the main rigging slide down a
backstay, drop heavily on deck, recover, and dash on towards the boy.

Broad on the beam of her, the sea tore at us and brimmed the decks--a
white-lashing fury of a sea, that swept fore and aft, then frothed in a
whelming torrent to leeward.

When we got forward through the wash of it, we found Jones crouching
under the weather rail. One arm was jammed round the bulwark
stanchion, the wrist stiffened and torn by the wrench, the other held
the Kid--a limp, unconscious figure.

"Carry him aft," said Jones. "I think ... he's ... all right ... only
half drowned!" He swayed as he spoke, holding his hand to his head,
gasping, and spitting out. "D-damn young swine! What ... he ...
w-want t' come on deck f-for? T-told ... him t' ... s-stay below!"

IV

THE 'DEAD HORSE'

Fine weather, if hot as the breath of Hades, and the last dying airs of
the nor'-east trades drifting us to the south'ard at a leisured three
knots.

From the first streak of daylight we had been hard at work finishing up
the general overhaul cf gear and rigging that can only be done in the
steady trade winds. Now it was over; we could step out aloft, sure of
our foothold; all the treacherous ropes were safe in keeping of the
'shakin's cask,' and every block and runner was working smoothly, in
readiness for the shifting winds of the doldrums that would soon be
with us.

The work done, bucket and spar were manned and, for the fourth time
that day, the sun-scorched planks and gaping seams of the deck were
sluiced down--a job at which we lingered, splashing the limpid water as
fast the wetted planks steamed and dried again. A grateful coolness
came with the westing of the tyrant sun, and when our miserable evening
meal had been hurried through we sought the deck again, to sit under
the cool draught of the foresail watching the brazen glow that attended
the sun's setting, the glassy patches of windless sea, the faint
ripples that now and then swept over the calm--the dying breath of a
stout breeze that had lifted us from 27 deg. North. What talk there was
among us concerned our voyage, a never-failing topic; and old Martin,
to set the speakers right, had brought his 'log'--a slender
yardstick--from the forecastle.

"... ty-seven ... ty-eight