Minutes passed and she lay steady, her lower yardarms spiking the whirling smother to leeward, right over, pressed down and overwhelmed by the fearful strength of the screeching tempest. Then there came a lull. The gallant vessel gave a desperate quiver as she struggled to rise, then slowly she brought her spars to windward and shook herself free, the water pouring off the maindeck and dragging the gear off the pins in a hideous tangle. "Now! now! now!" screeched the bosun, his voice strained to cracking point, and ten sets of hooked claws from ten burly fists fastened upon the swelling breast of the main topgallant-sail. A few inches were gained and stuffed between the groaning yard and the straining, perspiring bodies. Again the aching finger-tips caught hold; a foot came in this time, then another, and the men at the yardarms fumbled for the gaskets. "Catch a turn! catch a turn!" bellowed the bosun. The cockney to windward, his sou'wester gone, his long hair streaming in the wind, and his thin, comical face working furiously with his efforts, managed to get the yardarm gasket passed. 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. Again and again the sail broke away from the clawing hands, staining itself red with the blood from torn finger-nails and skinned knuckles, until at last they got a firm hold. Up it came, inch by inch; their arms groaned under the strain, their curved fingers throbbed with fiery pains--still with gritted teeth, they hung on.