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All the energy of the man was concentrated upon this wrestle with the gale for the ownership of the Willing Mind; and he imparted his energy to his companion. They lived upon deck, wet and starved and perishing with the cold–the cold of December in the North Sea, when the spray cuts the face like a whip-cord. They ate by snatches when they could, which was seldom; and they slept by snatches when they could, which was even less often. And at the end of the fourth day there came a blinding fall of snow and sleet, which drifted down the companion, sheeted the ropes with ice, and hung the yards with icicles, and which made every inch of brass a searing-iron and every yard of the deck a danger to the foot.

It was when this storm began to fall that Weeks grasped Duncan fiercely by the shoulder.

“What is it you did on land?” he cried. “Confess it, man! There may be some chance for us if you go down on your knees and confess it.”

Duncan turned as fiercely upon Weeks. Both men were overstrained with want of food and sleep.

“I’m not your Jonah–don’t fancy it! I did nothing on land!”

“Then what did you come out for?”

“What did you? To fight and wrestle for your ship, eh? Well, I came out to fight and wrestle for my immortal soul, and let it go at that!”

Weeks turned away, and as he turned, slipped on the frozen deck. A lurch of the smack sent him sliding into the rudder-chains, where he lay. Once he tried to rise, and fell back. Duncan hauled himself along the bulwarks to him.

“Hurt?”

“Leg broke. Get me down into the cabin. Lucky there’s the tell-tale. We’ll get the Willing Mind berthed by the quay, see if we don’t.” That was still his one thought, his one belief.

Duncan hitched a rope round Weeks, underneath his arms, and lowered him as gently as he could down the companion.

“Lift me on to the table so that my head’s just beneath the compass! Right! Now take a turn with the rope underneath the table, or I’ll roll off. Push an oily under my head, and then go for’ard and see if you can find a fish-box. Take a look that the wheel’s fast.”

It seemed to Duncan that the last chance was gone. There was just one inexperienced amateur to change the sails and steer a seventy-ton ketch across the North Sea into Yarmouth Roads. He said nothing, however, of his despair to the indomitable man upon the table, and went forward in search of a fish-box. He split up the sides into rough splints and came aft with them.

“Thank ‘ee, lad,” said Weeks. “Just cut my boot away, and fix it up best you can.”

The tossing of the smack made the operation difficult and long. Weeks, however, never uttered a groan. Only Duncan once looked up, and said–“Halloa! You’ve hurt your face too. There’s blood on your chin!”

“That’s all right!” said Weeks, with an effort. “I reckon I’ve just bit through my lip.”

Duncan stopped his work.

“You’ve got a medicine-chest, skipper, with some laudanum in it–?”

“Daren’t!” replied Weeks. “There’s on’y you and me to work the ship. Fix up the job quick as you can, and I’ll have a drink of Friar’s Balsam afterwards. Seems to me the gale’s blowing itself out, and if on’y the wind holds in the same quarter–” And thereupon he fainted.

Duncan bandaged up the leg, got Weeks round, gave him a drink of Friar’s Balsam, set the teapot within his reach, and went on deck. The wind was going down; the air was clearer of foam. He tallowed the lead and heaved it, and brought it down to Weeks. Weeks looked at the sand stuck on the tallow and tasted it, and seemed pleased.

“This gives me my longitude,” said he, “but not my latitude, worse luck. Still, we’ll manage it. You’d better get our dinner now; any odd thing in the way of biscuits or a bit of cold fish will do, and then I think we’ll be able to run.”