The boatswain brought down his fist with a resounding whack on the scuttle butt, threatening to stave in the top of the barrel.

“And how did the fight end?” asked Desmond.

“We drove ’em back bit by bit, and fairly wore ’em down.  They weren’t all sailormen, or we couldn’t have done it, for they had the numbers; but an Englishman on his own ship is worth any two furriners—­aye, half a dozen some do say, though I wouldn’t go so far as that myself—­and at the last some of them turned tail and bolted back.  The ship’s boy, what was in the shrouds, saw ’em on the run and set up a screech:  ‘Hooray! hooray!’ That was all we wanted.  We hoorayed too; and went at ’em in such a slap-bang go-to-glory way that in a brace of shakes there wasn’t a Frenchman, a Dutchman, nor a Moor on board.  They cut the grapnels and floated clear, and next mornin’ we saw ’em on their beam ends on a sandbank a mile down the river.  That’s how I fust come across Mr. Diggle; I may be wrong, but I says it again:  look out for squalls.”

For some days the wind held fair, and the ship being now in the main track of the trades, all promised well for a quick run to the Cape.  But suddenly there was a change; a squall struck the vessel from the southwest.  Captain Barker, catching sight of Desmond and a seaman near at hand, shouted: 

“Furl the top-gallant sail, you two.  Now show a leg, or, by thunder, the masts will go by the board.”

Springing up the shrouds on the weather side, Desmond was quickest aloft.  He crawled out on the yard, the wind threatening every moment to tear him from his dizzy, rocking perch, and began with desperate energy to furl the straining canvas.  It was hard work, and but for the development of his muscles during the past few months, and a naturally cool head, the task would have been beyond his powers.  But setting his teeth and exerting his utmost strength, he accomplished his share of it as quickly as the able seaman on the lee yard.

The sail was half furled when all at once the mast swung through a huge arc; the canvas came with tremendous force against the cross trees, and Desmond, flung violently outwards, found himself swinging in midair, clinging desperately to the leech of the sail.  With a convulsive movement he grasped at a loose gasket above him, and catching a grip, wound it twice or thrice round his arm.  The strain was intense; the gasket was thin and cut deeply into the flesh; he knew that should it give way nothing could save him.  So he hung, the wind howling around him, the yards rattling, the boisterous sea below heaving as if to clutch him and drag him to destruction.

A few seconds passed, every one of which seemed an eternity.  Then through the noise he heard shouts on deck.  The vessel suddenly swung over, and Desmond’s body inclined towards instead of from the mast.  Shooting out his arm he caught at the yard, seized it, and held on, though it seemed that his arm must be wrenched from the socket.  In a few moments he succeeded in clambering on to the yard, where he clung, endeavoring to regain his breath and his senses.