Jones ceased trying to rouse him, and, running out the steering oar, called on us to haul the sea-anchor aboard.  We lay to our oars, listening for a further gunfire.

Whooo-o. . . .  Boom-m-m.

A rocket!  They were looking for us then!  The pinnace must have been picked up!  A cheer—­what a cheer!—­came brokenly from our lips; and we lashed furiously at the oars, steering to where a glare in the mist had come with the last report.

Roused by the thrash of our oars, the old man sat up.  “Whatt now, b’ye?  Whatt now?”

“Ship firin’ rockets, sir,” said Jones.  “Rockets . . . no mistake.”  As he spoke, another coloured streamer went flaming through the eastern sky.  “Give way, there!  We’ll miss her if she’s running south!  Give way, all!” The glare of the rocket put heart into our broken old skipper.  “Steady now, b’yes,” he said, with something of his old enthusiasm.

We laboured steadily at the oars, but our strength was gone.  The sea too, that we had thought moderate when lying to sea-anchor, came at us broadside on and set our light boat to a furious dance.  Wave crests broke and lashed aboard, the reeling boat was soon awash, and the spare men had to bale frantically to keep her afloat.  But terror of the ship running south from us nerved our wearied arms, and we kept doggedly swinging the oars.  Soon we made out the vessel’s sidelight—­the gleam of her starboard light, that showed that she was hauled to the wind, not running south as we had feared.  They could not see on such a night, we had nothing to make a signal, but the faint green flame gave us heart in our distress.

The old man, himself again, was now steering, giving us Big Jones to bear at the oars.  As we drew on we made out the loom of the vessel’s sails—­a big ship under topsails only, and sailing slowly to the west.  We pulled down wind to cross her course, shouting together as we rowed.  Would they never hear? . . .  Again! . . .  Again!

Suddenly there came a hail from the ship, a roar of orders, rattle of blocks and gear, the yards swung round and she layed up in the wind, while the ghostly glare of a blue light lit up the sea around.

A crowd of men were gathered at the waist, now shouting and cheering as we laboured painfully into the circle of vivid light.  Among them a big man (huge he looked in that uncanny glare) roared encouragement in hoarse gutturals.

Old Schenke?  The Hedwig Rickmers?

Aye—­Schenke!  But a different Schenke to the big, blustering, overbearing “Square-head” we had known in ’Frisco.  Schenke as kind as a brother—­a brother of the sea indeed.  Big, fat, honest Schenke, passing his huge arm through that of our broken old skipper, leading him aft to his own bed, and silencing his faltering story by words of cheer. “Ach, du lieber Gott!  It is all right, no?  All right, Cabtin, now you come on board.  Ah know all ’bout it! . . .  Ah pick de oder boat up in de morning, und dey tells me.  You come af mit me, Cabtin. . . .  Goot, no?”