“I rate you as Mate,” he said in his gratitude, “and you’ll draw salvage pay according to your rank.  I was going to make Mr. Philipps my officer, but—­”

“Don’t apologize,” said Dayton-Philipps.  “I don’t know the name of one string from another, and I’m quite conscious of my deficiency.  But just watch me put in another spell at those infernal pumps.”

The list was of less account now, and the vessel was once more under command of her canvas.  It was the leak which gave them most cause for anxiety.  Likely enough it was caused by the mere wrenching away of a couple of rivets.  But the steady inpour of water through the holes would soon have made the ship grow unmanageable and founder if it was not constantly attended to.  Where the leak was they had not a notion.  Probably it was deep down under the cargo of grain, and quite unget-at-able; but anyway it demanded a constant service at the pumps to keep it in check, and this the bone-weary crew were but feebly competent to give.  They were running up into the latitude of the Bay, too, and might reasonably expect that “Biscay weather” would not take much from the violence of the existing gale.

However, the dreaded Bay, fickle as usual, saw fit to receive them at first with a smiling face.  The gale eased to a plain smiling wind; the sullen black clouds dissolved away into fleckless blue, and a sun came out which peeled their arms and faces as they worked.  During the afternoon they rose the brown sails of a Portuguese fishing schooner, and Kettle headed toward her.

Let his crew be as willing as they would, there was no doubt that this murderous work at the pumps could not be kept up for a voyage to England.  If he could not get further reinforcements, he would have to take the ship into the nearest foreign port to barely save her from sinking.  And then where would be his sighed-for salvage?  Wofully thinned, he thought, or more probably whisked away altogether.  Captain Kettle had a vast distrust for the shore foreigner over questions of law proceedings and money matters.  So he made for the schooner, hove his own vessel to, and signalled that he wished to speak.

A boat was slopped into the water from the schooner’s deck, and ten swarthy, ragged Portuguese fishermen crammed into her.  A couple pushed at the oars, and they made their way perilously over the deep hill and dale of ocean with that easy familiarity which none but deep-sea fishermen can attain.  They worked up alongside, caught a rope which was thrown them, and nimbly climbed over on to the decks.

Two or three of them had a working knowledge of English; their captain spoke it with fluent inaccuracy; and before any of them had gone aft to Kettle, who stood at the wheel, they heard the whole story of the ship being found derelict, and (very naturally) were anxious enough by some means or another to finger a share of the salvage.  Even a ragged Portuguese baccalhao maker can have his ambitions for prosperity like other people.