Farewell to friends, farewell to foes,
Farewell to dear relations.
We're bound across the ocean blue--
Bound for the foreign nations.
Then obey your bo's'n's call,
Walk away with that cat-fall!
And we'll think on those girls when we can no longer stay.
And we'll think on those girls when we're far, far away.
--Unmooring.
For the first few moments, after being snatched up in that fashion, Mayo
hung from the dolphin-striker without motion, like a man paralyzed.
He was astounded by the suddenness of this abduction. He was afraid to
struggle. Momentarily he expected that the fabric would let go and that
he would be rolled under the forefoot of the schooner. Then he began to
grow faint from lack of breath; he was nearly garroted by his collar.
Carefully he raised his hands and set them about a stay above his head
and lifted himself so that he might ease his throat from the throttling
grip of the collar. He dangled there over the water for some time,
feeling that he had not strength enough, after his choking, to lift
himself into the chains or to swing to the foot-rope.
He glanced up and saw the figurehead; it seemed to be simpering at him
with an irritating smile. There was something of bland triumph in that
grin. In the upset of his feelings there was personal and provoking
aggravation in the expression of the figurehead. He swore at it as if it
were something human. His anger helped him, gave him strength. He began
to swing himself, and at last was able to throw a foot over a stay.
He rested for a time and then gave himself another hoist and was able
to get astride the bowsprit. He judged that they must be outside the
headland of Saturday Cove, because the breeze was stronger and the sea
gurgled and showed white threads of foam against the blunt bows. His
struggles had consumed more time than he had realized in the dazed
condition produced by his choking collar.
He heard the popping of a motor-boat's engine far astern, and was
cheered by the prompt conviction that pursuit was on. Therefore, he made
haste to get in touch with the Polly's master. He scrambled inboard
along the bowsprit and fumbled his way aft over the piles of lumber,
obliged to move slowly for fear of pitfalls, Once or twice he shouted,
but he received no answer, He perceived three dim figures on the
quarter-deck when he arrived there--three men. Captain Candage was
stamping to and fro.
"Who in the devil's name are you?" bawled the old skipper. "Get off'm
here! This ain't a passenger-bo't."