One more heave and the sail was muzzled, and the worn-out men clambered slowly down from aloft.
Meanwhile, Jack, Broncho, Hank, and the gambler were having the time of their lives on the fore.
Jack, at the bunt, with a grim smile on his streaming face and eyes gleaming with a kind of strenuous joy, leant far over and watched like a prize-fighter for an opening.
Broncho and Hank, on each side of him, plucked furiously at the tightly stretched canvas without success.
Like the bosun, Jack saw his chance in the short lull and grabbed a fold, but it was too strong for him and tore itself free; again he dived at it, but the sail, which had not been properly clewed up, behaved like a fiend.
It bellied up in front of him and above him in raging protest, and battered him mercilessly against the mast, whilst it nearly sent Broncho and Hank headlong overboard.
The cowpuncher made a wild clutch at the man-rope as he was hurled backward, and hung there, his muscles strained and cracking as the canvas beat its weight upon him.
Hank, with both arms embracing the bunt-line, swung on the footrope with head and shoulders buried in the shaking folds.
Unsuccessful in its murderous attempt, the sail dropped back and the battle began anew.
Fiercely, enraged by the dastardly behaviour of the vicious sail, the three deep-sea musketeers leant forward to the attack again.