"Who the hell are you? What are you doing?"

I saw him now. He was standing at the foot of the weather t'gallant
rigging, his face was turned upwards, peering round the after side of
the mast. It showed to me only as a blurred, pale-coloured oval in the
moonlight.

He repeated his question.

"It's Williams and I, Sir," I said. "Tom, here, has had an accident."

I stopped. He began to come up higher towards us. From the rigging to
leeward there came suddenly a buzz of men talking.

The Second Mate reached us.

"Well, what's up, anyway?" he inquired, suspiciously. "What's happened?"

He had bent forward, and was peering at Tom. I started to explain; but
he cut me short with:

"Is he dead?"

"No, Sir," I said. "I don't think so; but the poor beggar's had a bad
fall. He was hanging by the gasket when we got to him. The sail knocked
him off the yard."

"What?" he said, sharply.

"The wind caught the sail, and it lashed back over the yard--"