Suddenly, against the murky sky-line, with mainsail double-reefed and
jib close-hauled, loomed a light craft plunging bows under at every
lurch. Then a chip the size of your hand broke away from the frail
vessel, and a big wave lying around for such prey, sprang upon it with
wide-open mouth. The tiny bit dodged and slipped out of sight into a
mighty ravine, then mounted high in air, upborne in the teeth of another
great monster, and again was lost to view. Soon the chip became a bit of
driftwood manned by two toy men working two toy oars like mad and
bearing at one end a yellow dot.
Then the first officer walked down the deck to where I stood, followed
by a huddle of seamen who began unrolling a rope ladder.
"You're right," I heard an officer answer a passenger. "It's no fit
weather to take a pilot. Captain wouldn't have stopped for any other
boat but No. 11. But those fellows out there don't know what
weather is."
The bit of driftwood now developed into a yawl. The yellow dot broadened
and lengthened to the semblance of a man standing erect and unbuttoning
his oil-skins as he looked straight at the steamer rolling port-holes
under, the rope ladder flopping against her side.
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