But they must secure the main gaff, and clutching at the boom above his head, he swung himself up and worked along to its outer end, which stretched over the stern. A footrope ran below the spar; one could balance oneself by its help and he vaguely distinguished somebody close by. It was, no doubt, Wyndham, because his clothes looked white. There was no use in shouting. The uproar drowned one's voice; besides, their job was plain. They must get a rope round the end of the gaff and lash it fast. Marston's waist was on the boom; his feet stuck out behind him, braced against the rope. In front there was a dark gulf. This was, no doubt, the hollow of the sail, and the indistinct slanting line above was the gaff. He threw a rope across the latter, but the end did not drop, so that he could seize it under the sail; the wind blew it out, straight and tight. He tried again, farther aft, jostling against the figure that looked faintly white, and leaning down across the boom, caught the end of the rope. The other man helped him and when they had got a loop round the end of the gaff he stopped for breath. He was shaky after the effort, his heart thumped painfully, and his chest rose and fell. He imagined other men were on the boom, but he and his companion were all that mattered. They must lash the peak down before the sail blew out again. When this was done, the others could master the distended folds. The wet rope tore his hands; he felt them get slippery with blood, but he held on and the man beside him helped. Marston knew he was not a Kroo. The Kroos were bold sailors, but their resolution had a limit. When a job looked hopeless they gave up; the man beside Marston was another type. While there was breath in his body he would stick to his task. The sail must be conquered. Lightning played about them and Marston's eyes were dazzled by the changes from intolerable glare to dark. He trusted to the feel of things and his seaman's knowledge of what was happening. He did not think, but worked half-consciously. They made the gaff fast, and then something broke and the heavy boom swung out over the sea. The jerk threw Marston's feet from the rope and his body began to slip off the boom. He saw fiery foam below, but as he braced himself for the plunge the next man seized him. It looked as if they must both slip off, for Marston found no hold for his hands on the smooth, wet spar. Perhaps the pressure of the wind saved them by forcing their limp bodies against the boom, for the other man steadied Marston until his foot touched the rope again.