“Quarter-boat ahoy!” 

 “Ahoy!” 

 “How much water have you?” 

 “None!” 

 The word came floating over the placid moonlit water. At it the fellows in the long-boat ceased rowing, and you could see the water-drops dripping off their oars like diamonds in the moonlight. 

 “Quarter-boat ahoy!” shouted the fellow in the bow. “Lay on your oars.” 

 “Here, you scowbanker!” cried Le Farge, “who are you to be giving directions—” 

 “Scowbanker yourself!” replied the fellow. “Bullies, put her about!” 

 The starboard oars backed water, and the boat came round. 

 By chance the worst lot of the Northumberland’s crew were in the long-boat—veritable “scowbankers,” scum; and how scum clings to life you will never know, until you have been amongst it in an open boat at sea. Le Farge had no more command over this lot than you have who are reading this book. 

 “Heave to!” came from the quarter-boat, as she laboured behind. 

 “Lay on your oars, bullies!” cried the ruffian at the bow, who was still standing up like an evil genius who had taken momentary command over events. “Lay on your oars, bullies; they’d better have it now.” 

 The quarter-boat in her turn ceased rowing, and lay a cable’s length away. 

 “How much water have you?” came the mate’s voice. 

 “Not enough to go round.” 

 Le Farge made to rise, and the stroke oar struck at him, catching him in the wind and doubling him up in the bottom of the boat. 

 “Give us some, for God’s sake!” came the mate’s voice; “we’re parched with rowing, and there’s a woman on board.” 

 The fellow in the bow of the long-boat, as if some one had suddenly struck him, broke into a tornado of blasphemy. 

 “Give us some,” came the mate’s voice, “or, by God, we’ll lay you aboard!” 

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