Blow the Man Down - A Romance of the Coast

He knew well enough that Captain Candage was not performing with wilful

intent to do all that damage. In what little wind there was the schooner

was not under control. She was drifting until she got enough headway to

be steered. In the mean time she was doing what came in her way to do.

The Polly had been anchored near the Olenia. As soon as her anchor

left bottom the schooner drifted up the harbor. Mayo knew, in a few

minutes, that Candage was bringing her about. An especial outbreak of

smashing signaled that manouver.

Mayo sniffed at the breeze, judged distance and direction, and then he

rushed forward and pounded his fist on the forecastle hatch.

"Rout out all hands!" he shouted. "Rouse up bumpers and tarpaulin!"

With the wind as it was, he realized that the schooner would point up in

the Olenia's direction when Candage headed out to sea.

At last Mayo caught a glimpse of her through the fog. His calculation

had been correct. Headed his way she was. She was moving so slowly

that she was practically unmanageable; her apple-bows hardly stirred

a ripple, but with breeze helping the tide-set she was coming

irresistibly, paying off gradually and promising to sideswipe the big

yacht.

Mayo had a mariner's pride in his craft, and a master's devotion to

duty. He did not content himself with merely ordering about the men who

came tumbling on deck.

He grabbed a huge bumper away from one of the sailors who seemed

uncertain just what to do; he ran forward and thrust it over the rail,

leaning far out to see that it was placed properly to take the impact.

He was giving more attention to the safety of the Olenia than he was

to what the on-coming Polly might do to him.

Under all bowsprits on schooners, to guy the headstays, thrusts

downward a short spar, at right angles to the bowsprit; it is called the

martingale or dolphin-striker. The amateur riggers who had tinkered with

the Polly's gear in makeshift fashion had not troubled to smooth off

spikes with which they had repaired the martingale's lower end. Captain

Mayo ducked low to dodge a guy, and the spikes hooked themselves neatly

into the back of his reefer coat. Mr. Marston had bought excellent and

strong cloth for his captain's uniform. The fabric held, the spikes were

well set, the Polly did not pause, and, therefore, the master of the

Olenia was yanked off his own deck and went along.

All the evening Mayo's collar had been buttoned closely about his neck

to keep out the fog-damp, and when he was picked up by the spikes the

collar gripped tightly about his throat and against his larynx. His cry

for help was only a strangled squawk. His men were scattered along the

side of the yacht, trying to protect her, the night was over all, and no

one noted the mode of the skipper's departure.