In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed
And also they rowed.
They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed
an oar. Then the oiler took both oars; then the
correspondent took both oars; then the oiler; then
the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed.
The very ticklish part of the business was when the
time came for the reclining one in the stern to take
his turn at the oars. By the very last star of
truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen
than it was to change seats in the dingey. First
the man in the stern slid his hand along the thwart
and moved with care, as if he were of Sevres.
Then the man in the rowing seat slid his hand along
the other thwart. It was all done with most extraordinary
care. As the two sidled past each other, the whole
party kept watchful eyes on the coming wave, and the
captain cried: “Look out now! Steady
there!”
The brown mats of seaweed that appeared from time
to time were like islands, bits of earth. They
were traveling, apparently, neither one way nor the
other. They were, to all intents, stationary.
They informed the men in the boat that it was making
progress slowly toward the land.
The captain, rearing cautiously in the bow, after
the dingey soared on a great swell, said that he had
seen the light-house at Mosquito Inlet. Presently
the cook remarked that he had seen it. The correspondent
was at the oars then, and for some reason he too wished
to look at the lighthouse, but his back was toward
the far shore and the waves were important, and for
some time he could not seize an opportunity to turn
his head. But at last there came a wave more gentle
than the others, and when at the crest of it he swiftly
scoured the western horizon.
“See it?” said the captain.
“No,” said the correspondent slowly, “I
didn’t see anything.”
“Look again,” said the captain. He
pointed. “It’s exactly in that direction.”
At the top of another wave, the correspondent did
as he was bid, and this time his eyes chanced on a
small still thing on the edge of the swaying horizon.
It was precisely like the point of a pin. It took
an anxious eye to find a light house so tiny.
“Think we’ll make it, captain?”
“If this wind holds and the boat don’t
swamp, we can’t do much else,” said the
captain.
The little boat, lifted by each towering sea, and
splashed viciously by the crests, made progress that
in the absence of seaweed was not apparent to those
in her. She seemed just a wee thing wallowing,
miraculously top-up, at the mercy of five oceans.
Occasionally, a great spread of water, like white
flames, swarmed into her.
“Bail her, cook,” said the captain serenely.
“All right, captain,” said the cheerful
cook.
