“No fear, Doc; it had done its work when you were in your cradle.  What’ll we do for canvas?  We must get this craft before the wind.  How’ll the carpet do?” Boston lifted the edge, and tried the fabric in his fingers.  “It’ll go,” he said; “we’ll double it.  I’ll hunt for a palm-and-needle and some twine.”  These articles he found in the mate’s room.  “The twine’s no better than yarn,” said he, “but we’ll use four parts.”

Together they doubled the carpet diagonally, and with long stitches joined the edges.  Then Boston sewed into each corner a thimble—­an iron ring—­and they had a triangular sail of about twelve feet hoist.  “It hasn’t been exposed to the action of the air like the ropes in the locker forward,” said Boston, as he arose and took off the palm; “and perhaps it’ll last till she pays off.  Then we can steer.  You get the big pulley-blocks from the locker, Doc, and I’ll get the rope from the boat.  It’s lucky I thought to bring it; I expected to lift things out of the hold with it.”

At the risk of his life Boston obtained the coil from the boat, while the doctor brought the blocks.  Then, together, they rove off a tackle.  With the handles of their pistols they knocked bunk-boards to pieces and saved the nails; then Boston climbed the foremast, as a painter climbs a steeple—­by nailing successive billets of wood above his head for steps.  Next he hauled up and secured the tackle to the forward side of the mast, with which they pulled up the upper corner of their sail, after lashing the lower corners to the windlass and fiferail.

It stood the pressure, and the hulk paid slowly off and gathered headway.  Boston took the wheel and steadied her at northwest by west—­dead before the wind—­while the doctor, at his request, brought the open can of soup and lubricated the wheel-screw with the only substitute for oil at their command; for the screw worked hard with the rust of fifty years.

Their improvised sail, pressed steadily on but one side, had held together, but now, with the first flap as the gale caught it from another direction, appeared a rent; with the next flap the rag went to pieces.

“Let her go!” sang out Boston gleefully; “we can steer now.  Come here, Doc, and learn to steer.”

The doctor came; and when he left that wheel, three days later, he had learned.  For the wind had blown a continuous gale the whole of this time, which, with the ugly sea raised as the ship left the lee of the land, necessitated the presence of both men at the helm.  Only occasionally was there a lull during which one of them could rush below and return with a can of soup.  During one of these lulls Boston had examined the boat, towing half out of water, and concluded that a short painter was best with a water-logged boat, had reinforced it with a few turns of his rope from forward.  In the three days they had sighted no craft except such as their own—­helpless—­hove-to or scudding.