It seemed to Duncan that the last chance was gone.  There was just one inexperienced amateur to change the sails and steer a seventy-ton ketch across the North Sea into Yarmouth Roads.  He said nothing, however, of his despair to the indomitable man upon the table, and went forward in search of a fish-box.  He split up the sides into rough splints and came aft with them.

“Thank ’ee, lad,” said Weeks.  “Just cut my boot away, and fix it up best you can.”

The tossing of the smack made the operation difficult and long.  Weeks, however, never uttered a groan.  Only Duncan once looked up, and said—­“Halloa!  You’ve hurt your face too.  There’s blood on your chin!”

“That’s all right!” said Weeks, with an effort.  “I reckon I’ve just bit through my lip.”

Duncan stopped his work.

“You’ve got a medicine-chest, skipper, with some laudanum in it—?”

“Daren’t!” replied Weeks.  “There’s on’y you and me to work the ship.  Fix up the job quick as you can, and I’ll have a drink of Friar’s Balsam afterwards.  Seems to me the gale’s blowing itself out, and if on’y the wind holds in the same quarter—­” And thereupon he fainted.

Duncan bandaged up the leg, got Weeks round, gave him a drink of Friar’s Balsam, set the teapot within his reach, and went on deck.  The wind was going down; the air was clearer of foam.  He tallowed the lead and heaved it, and brought it down to Weeks.  Weeks looked at the sand stuck on the tallow and tasted it, and seemed pleased.

“This gives me my longitude,” said he, “but not my latitude, worse luck.  Still, we’ll manage it.  You’d better get our dinner now; any odd thing in the way of biscuits or a bit of cold fish will do, and then I think we’ll be able to run.”

After dinner Duncan said:  “I’ll put her about now.”

“No; wear her and let her jibe,” said Weeks, “then you’ll on’y have to ease your sheets.”

Duncan stood at the wheel, while Weeks, with the compass swinging above his head, shouted directions through the companion.  They sailed the boat all that night with the wind on her quarter, and at daybreak Duncan brought her to and heaved his lead again.  There was rough sand with blackish specks upon the tallow, and Weeks, when he saw it, forgot his broken leg.

“My word,” he cried, “we’ve hit the Fisher Bank!  You’d best lash the wheel, get our breakfast, and take a spell of sleep on deck.  Tie a string to your finger and pass it down to me, so that I can wake you up.”

Weeks waked him up at ten o’clock, and they ran southwest with a steady wind till six, when Weeks shouted—­

“Take another cast with your lead.”

The sand upon the tallow was white like salt.

“Yes,” said Weeks; “I thought we was hereabouts.  We’re on the edge of the Dogger, and we’ll be in Yarmouth by the morning.”  And all through the night the orders came thick and fast from the cabin.  Weeks was on his own ground; he had no longer any need of the lead; he seemed no longer to need his eyes; he felt his way across the currents from the Dogger to the English coast; and at daybreak he shouted—­