The Lighthouse. Robert Michael Ballantyne

did not thereafter attempt to finish that sentence.

      “Steward!” roared Joe Dumsby.

      “Ay, ay, shipmate, what’s up?” cried the steward, who chanced to pass the door of the men’s sleeping-place, with a large dish of boiled salt pork, at the moment.

      “Wot’s up?” echoed Dumsby. “Everythink that ever went into me since I was a hinfant must be ‘up’ by this time. I say, is there any chance of gettin’ on the rock to-day?”

      “O yes. I heard the cap’n say it would be quite easy, and they seem to be makin’ ready now, so if any of ’ee want breakfast you’d better turn out.”

      This speech acted like a shock of electricity on the wretched men. In a moment every bed was empty, and the place was in a bustle of confusion as they hurriedly threw on their clothes.

      Some of them even began to think of the possibility of venturing on a hard biscuit and a cup of tea, but a gust of wind sent the fumes of the salt pork into the cabin at the moment, and the mere idea of food filled them with unutterable loathing.

      Presently the bell rang again. This was the signal for the men to muster, the boats being ready alongside. The whole crew at once rushed on deck, some of them thrusting biscuits into their pockets as they passed the steward’s quarters. Not a man was absent on the roll being called. Even the smith crawled on deck, and had spirit enough left to advise Ruby not to forget the bellows; to which Ruby replied by recommending his comrade not to forget the matches.

      Then the operation of embarking began.

      The sea at the time was running pretty high, with little white flecks of foam tipping the crests of the deep blue waves. The eastern sky was dark and threatening. The black ridges of the Bell Rock were visible only at times in the midst of the sea of foam that surrounded them. Anyone ignorant of their nature would have deemed a landing absolutely impossible.

      The Pharos, as we have said, was rolling violently from side to side, insomuch that those who were in the boats had the greatest difficulty in preventing them from being stove in; and getting into these boats had much the appearance of an exceedingly difficult and dangerous feat, which active and reckless men might undertake for a wager.

      But custom reconciles one to almost anything. Most of the men had had sufficient experience by that time to embark with comparative ease. Nevertheless, there were a few whose physical conformation was such that they could do nothing neatly.

      Poor Forsyth was one of these. Each man had to stand on the edge of the lightship, outside the bulwarks, holding on to a rope, ready to let go and drop into the boat when it rose up and met the vessel’s roll. In order to facilitate the operation a boat went to either side of the ship, so that two men were always in the act of watching for an opportunity to spring. The active men usually got in at the first or second attempt, but others missed frequently, and were of course “chaffed” by their more fortunate comrades.

      The embarking of “Long Forsyth” was always a scene in rough weather, and many a narrow escape had he of a ducking. On the present occasion, being very sick, he was more awkward than usual.

      “Now, Longlegs,” cried the men who held the boat on the starboard side, as Forsyth got over the side and stood ready to spring, “let’s see how good you’ll be to-day.”

      He was observed by Joe Dumsby, who had just succeeded in getting into the boat on the port side of the ship, and who always took a lively interest in his tall comrade’s proceedings.