"Who cares if we run on rocks?
Can't we swim?
Gassharamminy! Take to the land and give them a run for it!" He seized the tiller to reinforce the argument, and wrenched at it until I hit him, and Fred threatened him with the only rifle.
"Get up forward!" Fred ordered; but Georges Coutlass would not go.
"Gassharamminy!" he snarled.

"You want my girl! I will fight the whole damned crew before I let her out of the hollow of my arm.
"All right, touch that tiller again and I'll kill you!" Fred warned him.
"Touch my girl, and you kill me or get out and swim!" Coutlass retorted.
Will was up forward with Brown, looking out for breakers through the spray that swept over us continually.

I watched the glow that rode above the launch's funnel, marveling, when I found time for it, at the mystery of why the cotton sail should hold.

The firm, somewhere in Connecticut, who made that export calico, should be praised by name, only that the dye they used was much less perfect than the stuff and workmanship; their trademark was all washed out.
Suddenly Will dodged under the bellying sail, throwing up both hands, and he and Brown screamed at me: "To your left! Go to your left! Rocks to the right!" The Germans had passed us, but not by much, for the short steep seas were tossing their propeller out of the water half the time.

Because of the course I had taken the wind was setting slightly from us toward them, and I could have sworn they heard Will's voice.