Captain Candage was spouting, splashing near at hand, and was bellowing
his fears. Then he began to call for his daughter in piteous fashion.
"Are you drownded, Polly darling?" he shouted.
"I have her safe, sir," Mayo assured him in husky tones, trying to clear
the water from his throat. "Stand on a beam. You can get half of your
body above water."
"It's all off with us," gasped the master. "We're spoke for."
Such utter and impenetrable blackness Mayo had never experienced before.
Their voices boomed dully, as if they were in a huge hogshead which had
been headed over.
'"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,'"
quavered the cook. "If anybody knows a better prayer I wish he'd say
it."
"Plumb over--upside down! Worse off than flies in a puddle of Porty Reek
molasses," mourned Mr. Speed.
The master joined the mate in lamentation. "I have brought my baby to
this! I have brought my Polly here! God forgive me. Can't you speak to
me, Polly?"
Mayo found the girl very quiet in the hook of his arm, and he put his
free hand against her cheek. She did not move under his touch.
"She has fainted, sir."
"No, she's dead! She's dead!" Candage began to weep and started to
splash his way across the cabin, directed by Mayo's voice.
"She is all right--she is breathing," the young man assured the father.
"Here! This way, captain! Take her. Hold her up. I want to see whether
anything can be done for us."
"Nothing can be done!" whimpered Candage. "We're goners."
"We're goners," averred Oakum Otie.
"We're goners," echoed Dolph.
Mayo gave the girl into the groping arms of her father and stood for a
few moments reflecting on their desperate plight. He was not hopeful. In
his heart he agreed with the convictions which his mates were expressing
in childish falsetto. But being a young sailor who found his head above
water, he resolved to keep on battling in that emergency; the adage
of the coastwise mariner is: "Don't die till Davy Jones sets his final
pinch on your weasen!"
First of all, he gave full consideration to what had happened. The
Polly had been whipped over so quickly that she had been transformed
into a sort of diving-bell.{*} That is to say, a considerable amount of
air had been captured and was now retained in her. It was compressed
by the water which was forced up from below through the windows and
the shattered skylight. The pressure on Mayo's temples afforded him
information on this point. The Polly was floating, and he felt
comforting confidence that she would continue to float for some
time. But this prospect did not insure safety or promise life to the
unfortunates who had been trapped in her bowels. The air must either
escape gradually or become vitiated as they breathed it.