“Tiz there ’er no place, Chief,” shouted the foreman to Mr. Warner. Then, as the engineer studied the situation, he shouted again. “May we be per-rtechted whin we tr-ry too; fer if wan o’ thim waves hits yez a slap in t’ back ’twill be Davy Jones’ Locker t’ next stop. They’ll suck yez under in a whink, an’ yez’ll niver see daylight agin. No shwimmin’ yez ivver learnt will save yez agin the undertow.”
“Well, the engineer who made the survey last year did it, O’Brien, and I guess we can do as much,” called Mr. Warner.
“Sure-re yez ’er a Kilkenny cat fer pluck,” said the foreman, “but I’m wid yez. Hi, bhoys, we’ll make a landin’. Tiz me an’ Mr. Warner what does it an’ don’t anither wan o’ yez even think o’ thr-ryin’. Yez hear-r me now. I’ll lick t’ life out o’ eny man who even sthands up in t’ bhoat. Here, Lanky Sims, yez ’er t’ bist sailor in t’ outfit; take t’ tiller and mind yez kape her hull. Jist a shlip an’ she’ll be smashed t’ kindlin’ agin t’ r-rock an’ we’ll all be at t’ bhottom.”
Lanky Sims, a tall, raw-boned Yankee who had been brought up on the high seas, came from the bow and took O’Brien’s place. Mr. Warner turned solemnly and shook hands with Jack and Ray, and O’Brien did the same. Not a word did they utter, but the lads understood, and a lump as big as an apple came into Jack’s throat.
The engineer and the foreman made their way to the bow of the boat. Then Lanky Sims took a fresh quid from a black plug of tobacco, spat over the side and shouted:
“Yo-heave-ho, boys!”
And the men bent to the oars with a will. Sims took the craft out toward the open ocean, then turned her, and with the swells at her stern started to ride in slowly, keeping his eyes pinned on the sloping trough of rock into which each big wave plunged and surged aloft with a gurgling hiss. Nearer and nearer they drew, the men rowing with short strokes and keeping their great bodies alert and ready to obey Sims’ orders. Mr. Warner had decided to try first, in spite of the Irishman’s protests, and he stood waiting in the bow, one foot on the gunwale and his hand resting on Big O’Brien’s shoulder to steady himself.
Sims watched the waves with calculating eyes. Not a muscle in his face moved. Not a nerve in his body quivered. Closer and closer to certain destruction moved the pitching boat. A great wave raised it, held it trembling aloft for a moment, then slipped out from under it and shot into the trough, spurting foam and water aloft and drenching the entire crew. And the moment its force had been spent and the water began to suck backward Sims gave the expected order.
“Yo-heave-ho!” he roared and bent his body forward. The oars dug deep and the whaleboat shot forward! Mr. Warner hesitated a moment, then jumped! Into the trough he dropped and up the slippery granite he scrambled. He reached the first niche, the second, the third. He was ten feet up, twelve, and now fifteen. Then Sims shouted:
“Back, boys, back water quick. Here comes another.”