Then the boat emerged, half swamped, Leach flinging the water out and Johnson clinging to the steering-oar, his face white and anxious.
Wolf Larsen barked a short laugh in my ear and strode away to the weather side of the poop.

I expected him to give orders for the _Ghost_ to heave to, but she kept on her course and he made no sign.

Louis stood imperturbably at the wheel, but I noticed the grouped sailors forward turning troubled faces in our direction.

Still the _Ghost_ tore along, till the boat dwindled to a speck, when Wolf Larsen's voice rang out in command and he went about on the starboard tack.
Back we held, two miles and more to windward of the struggling cockle-shell, when the flying jib was run down and the schooner hove to.
The sealing boats are not made for windward work.

Their hope lies in keeping a weather position so that they may run before the wind for the schooner when it breezes up.