it went up, up, up, until it reached the very crest of a wave, then it dropped into the trough-like depression just ahead and was almost lost to sight, only to come shooting upward again on the next billow. So it made its way to the derelict. Meantime the entire crew of the Iroquois leaned over the rail, watching.
To the astonishment of the onlookers, the small boat turned shortly after it reached the wreck and pulled straight back to the Iroquois without making any attempt to destroy it. The captain awaited the return of the boat by the leeward rail.
“What's the difficulty, Mr. Hill?” he called, when the small boat came within speaking distance.
“We need some storm oil and a drip-bag,” shouted the lieutenant through cupped hands. “It’s so rough that we can’t get close to her.”
The desired materials were brought and the small boat returned toward the derelict. Meantime, the oil had been poured from the can into the drip-bag, which was merely a conical bag of tightly-woven duck stuffed with oakum. When the boat had pulled some distance to windward of the hulk, a sailor jabbed several holes in the drip-bag with a knife-point, and the bag was hung out over the water on the end of an oar. But apparently the effect was not all Mr. Hill