The tossing of the smack made the operation difficult and long. Weeks,
however, never uttered a groan. Only Duncan once looked up, and
said--"Halloa! You've hurt your face too. There's blood on your chin!"

"That's all right!" said Weeks, with an effort. "I reckon I've just
bit through my lip."

Duncan stopped his work.

"You've got a medicine-chest, skipper, with some laudanum in it--?"

"Daren't!" replied Weeks. "There's on'y you and me to work the ship.
Fix up the job quick as you can, and I'll have a drink of Friar's
Balsam afterwards. Seems to me the gale's blowing itself out, and if
on'y the wind holds in the same quarter--" And thereupon he fainted.

Duncan bandaged up the leg, got Weeks round, gave him a drink of
Friar's Balsam, set the teapot within his reach, and went on deck. The
wind was going down; the air was clearer of foam. He tallowed the lead
and heaved it, and brought it down to Weeks. Weeks looked at the sand
stuck on the tallow and tasted it, and seemed pleased.

"This gives me my longitude," said he, "but not my latitude, worse
luck. Still, we'll manage it. You'd better get our dinner now; any odd
thing in the way of biscuits or a bit of cold fish will do, and then I
think we'll be able to run."

After dinner Duncan said: "I'll put her about now."