oisted--the union down--but our wrecked mast, and the fellow
labouring at the pump must have told our story to the sight of that
ship, with an eloquence that could gather but little emphasis from the
signal of distress streaming like a square of flame half-mast high at
our stern.

It was broad daylight now, with a lightening in the darkness to
windward that opened out twice the distance of sea that was to be
measured before I went below. The ship, a noble structure, was well
within hail, rolling somewhat heavily, but with a majestical, slow
motion. There was a crowd of sailors on her forecastle staring at us,
and I remember even in that supreme moment, so tricksy is the human
intelligence, noticing how ghastly white the cloths of her
topmast-staysail or jib showed by contrast with the red and blue shirts
and other coloured apparel of the mob of seamen, and against the spread
of dusky sky beyond. There was also a little knot of people on the
poop, and a man standing near them, but alone; as I watched him he took
what I gathered to be a speaking-trumpet from the hand of the young
apprentice or ordinary seaman who had run to him with it.

"Now, Mr. Barclay," cried Caudel, in a voice vibratory with excitement,
"there's yours and the lady's hopportunity, sir. But what's your
instructions? What's your wishes, sir?"

"My wishes? How can you ask? We must leave the _Spitfire_. She is
already half-drowned. She will sink when you stop pumping."

"Right, sir," he exclaimed, and without another word posted himself at
the rail in a posture of attention with his eyes upon the ship.

She was apparently a vessel bound to some Indian or Australian port,
and seemingly full of passengers, for even as I stood watching, the
people in twos and threes arrived on the poop, or got upon the
main-deck bulwark-rail to view us. She was a long iron ship, red
beneath the water-line, and the bright streak of that colour glared out
over the foam, dissolving at her sides like a flash of crimson sunset,
as she rolled from us. Whenever she hove her stern up, gay with what
might have passed as gilt quarter badges, I could read her name in
long, white letters--"CARTHUSIAN, LONDON."

"Yacht ahoy!" now came in a hearty tempestuous shout through the
speaking trumpet, which the man I had before noticed lifted to his lips.

"Halloa!" shouted Caudel in response.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Wessel's making water fast, and ye can see," shrieked