Part 8

In the crow's nest Jim still yelled and waved like one distraught, while the dory returned at a smart clip toward the schooner. Kitchell lathered with fury.

“Oh-h,” he murmured softly through his gritted teeth. “Jess lemmee lay mee two hands afoul of you wunst, you gibbering, yellow philly-loo bird, believe me, you'll dance. Shut up!” he roared; “shut up, you crazy do-do, ain't we coming fast as we can?”

The dory bumped alongside, and the Captain was over the rail like quicksilver. The hands were all in the bow, looking and pointing to the west. Jim slid down the ratlines, bubbling over with suppressed news. Before his feet had touched the deck Kitchell had kicked him into the stays again, fulminating blasphemies.

“Sing!” he shouted, as the Chinaman clambered away like a bewildered ape; “sing a little more. I would if I were you. Why don't you sing and wave, you dam' fool philly-loo bird?”

“Yas, sah,” answered the coolie.

“What you yell for? Charlie, ask him whaffo him sing.”

“I tink-um ship,” answered Charlie calmly, looking out over the starboard quarter.

“Ship!”

“Him velly sick,” hazarded the Chinaman from the ratlines, adding a sentence in Chinese to Charlie.

“He says he tink-um ship sick, all same; ask um something--ship velly sick.”

By this time the Captain, Wilbur, and all on board could plainly make out a sail some eight miles off the starboard bow. Even at that distance, and to eyes so inexperienced as those of Wilbur, it needed but a glance to know that something was wrong with her. It was not that she failed to ride the waves with even keel, it was not that her rigging was in disarray, nor that her sails were disordered. Her distance was too great to make out such details. But in precisely the same manner as a trained physician glances at a doomed patient, and from that indefinable look in the face of him and the eyes of him pronounces the verdict “death,” so Kitchell took in the stranger with a single comprehensive glance, and exclaimed:

“Wreck!”

“Yas, sah. I tink-um velly sick.”

“Oh, go to 'll, or go below and fetch up my glass--hustle!”

The glass was brought. “Son,” exclaimed Kitchell--“where is that man with the brains? Son, come aloft here with me.” The two clambered up the ratlines to the crow's nest. Kitchell adjusted the glass.

“She's a bark,” he muttered, “iron built--about seven hundred tons, I guess--in distress. There's her ensign upside down at the mizz'nhead--looks like Norway--an' her distress signals on the spanker gaff. Take a blink at her, son--what do you make her out? Lord, she's ridin' high.”

Wilbur took the glass, catching the stranger after several clumsy attempts. She was, as Captain Kitchell had announced, a bark, and, to judge by her flag, evidently Norwegian.

“How she rolls!” muttered Wilbur.

“That's what I can't make out,” answered Kitchell. “A bark such as she ain't ought to roll thata way; her ballast'd steady her.”

“What's the flags on that boom aft--one's red and white and square-shaped, and the other's the same color, only swallow-tail in shape?”

“That's H. B., meanin: 'I am in need of assistance.'”

“Well, where's the crew? I don't see anybody on board.”

“Oh, they're there right enough.”

“Then they're pretty well concealed about the premises,” turned Wilbur, as he passed the glass to the Captain.

“She does seem kinda empty,” said the Captain in a moment, with a sudden show of interest that Wilbur failed to understand.

“An' where's her boats?” continued Kitchell. “I don't just quite make out any boats at all.” There was a long silence.

“Seems to be a sort of haze over her,” observed Wilbur.

“I noticed that, air kinda quivers oily-like. No boats, no boats--an' I can't see anybody aboard.” Suddenly Kitchell lowered the glass and turned to Wilbur. He was a different man. There was a new shine in his eyes, a wicked line appeared over the nose, the jaw grew salient, prognathous.