"Throw 'em through the fire," he chanted. "That's the way--throw 'em
through the fire--a hot oven, sixteen minutes--I take mine fourteen,
to the second--an' squeeze the carcasses."
By midday the snow had ceased and we were bowling along before a
stiff breeze. At three in the afternoon we were running before a
growing gale. It was across a mad ocean we tore, for the mounting
sea that made from eastward bucked into the West End Drift and
battled and battered down the huge south-westerly swell. And the big
grinning dolt of a Finnish carpenter, already food for fish and bird,
was astern there somewhere in the freezing rack and drive.
Make westing! We ripped it off across these narrowing degrees of
longitude at the southern tip of the planet where one mile counts for
two. And Mr. Pike, staring at his bending topgallant-yards, swore
that they could carry away for all he cared ere he eased an inch of
canvas. More he did. He set the huge crojack, biggest of all sails,
and challenged God or Satan to start a seam of it or all its seams.
Pages:
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443