“Got Jason aboard here,” Disko answered, but his voice quavered. “There—warn’t anyone else?”
“We’ve fund one, though. ’Run acrost him snarled up in a mess o’ lumber thet might ha’ bin a foc’sle. His head’s cut some.”
“Who is he?”
The We’re Here ’s heartbeats answered one another.
“Guess it’s young Olley,” the voice drawled.
Penn raised his hands and said something in German. Harvey could have sworn that a bright sun was shining upon his lifted face; but the drawl went on: “Sa‑ay! You fellers guyed us consid’rable t’other night.”
“We don’t feel like guyin’ any now,” said Disko.
“I know it; but to tell the honest truth we was kinder—kinder driftin’ when we run agin young Olley.”
It was the irrepressible Carrie Pitman , and a roar of unsteady laughter went up from the deck of the We’re Here .
“Hedn’t you ’baout’s well send the old man aboard? We’re runnin’ in fer more bait an’ graound-tackle. Guess you won’t want him, anyway, an’ this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. We’ll take care of him. He married my woman’s aunt.”
“I’ll give you anything in the boat,” said Troop.
“Don’t want nothin’, ’less, mebbe, an anchor that’ll hold. Say! Young Olley’s gittin’ kinder baulky an’ excited. Send the old man along.”
Penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and Tom Platt rowed him over. He went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all.