Sam turned, brushed the spray from his eyes with a wet woollen mitt, and had a look. He did not have to look twice. “_Think_ she’s coming! _Think!_” and leaped for the lee of the mainmast, where he hooked his fingers to a couple of belaying-pins in the fife-rail. Another squint then from around the mast. “_Think!_” and with a toe to the fife-rail and both hands to the halyards of the furled-up mainsail, he began to climb. “And climb you, too!” Another glance between the mast and bolt-rope of the sail. “_Think_, do you? Climb’s all I got to say. Climb, you alabaster idjit, and don’t stop till you’re to the masthead! She’s a Himalaya mountain.” Sam was by then strategically astraddle the main gaff, from where in comfort he could observe Gillis, who was to the lantern-board in the fore-rigging and still climbing. The sea struck her, and over rolled the little _Buccaneer_, over, over, till her masts were all but flat out on the water. Her waist must have been buried under ten feet of water, but Sam from his perch could manage to keep his head clear of the sea. He saw that his watch-mate was safe. “Hi, there! are the companion-way hatches down?” “I think so.” “You think so! Some day you’ll think you’re alive, and you’ll wake up dead. Is she lifting any for’ard? Can you tell from where you are? Will she come up?” “I think----” “Blast you and your thinkin’. Do you ever do anythin’ but think? Don’t you ever _know_ anything?” “She _is_ lifting.” “All right, then. How’d you like to be below now, wonderin’ what’s happened her?” “Not me. ’Tain’t so bad up here, is it?” “‘Twon’t be--if she comes up.” “Was this one ever hove down before, Sam?” “Twice.” “Worse than this were you ever?” “Once ’twas worse. This same man in her--he’s a dog, is Crump--nothing jars him. Both mastheads under that time.” “And come up, did she?” “And come up, did she?” snorted Sam. “Ain’t she here, and ain’t I here? Watch out--she’s righting now.” Up she came--a noble little vessel--slowly at first, but more rapidly as she began to free herself of the weight of water on her deck. Her final snap nearly threw Gillis from the rigging. A wild lunge, and he managed to retain his grip in time to save his life. Sam had to hide his emotion at his mate’s close call. “Didn’t I tell you to hang on? Think you was in a swing at a picnic? H’m--there’s the Skipper bangin’--the hatch is jammed.” Indications of action were proceeding from the cabin. Calm taps followed by quick strokes, and they seeming inadequate to proper results, one final impatient smash with the axe. Out came the dripping head and shoulders of Crump Taylor.