The Waters rise.—The Boys try Force.—Attach on Pat.—He is overpowered.—My Name’s Wade.—An Irish Howl.—Solomon immovable.—The Ancient Mariner at his Post.—The Boys fly.—Flight of Solomon.—“Drefful Times.”—Captain Corbet sings his Death Song.—A Rhapsody on the Antelope.—The rising Waters.—The doomed Schooner.—The rolling Seas.—The Antelope sinking.—The Form of Corbet slowly disappearing beneath the raging Seas.

THE waters continued to rise in the hold of the Antelope, and inch by inch the doomed schooner settled slowly down into the depths beneath. On the deck stood those four who still held aloof from the boat, and seemed to be animated by some insane or unintelligible motive. By the side of the schooner floated the boat, in which were Bruce, Arthur, Tom, Phil, and Bart. They were all standing up, and holding the Antelope’s rail, and shouting, bawling, yelling, entreating, threatening, and using every possible means to save their unfortunate companions.

Suddenly Bart drew his knife.

“Boys!” said he, “we’ll have to drag them off. Bruce and Arthur, come along. Tom and Phil, you mind the boat.”

With these words he jumped on board the Antelope, with his open knife in his hand. Bruce and Arthur leaped on board after him.

The sight of Bart, with his open knife, thus bounding on board the Antelope, astonished the other boys, who began to think that Bart, like the others, had also lost his senses; but they did as he said—Tom and Phil holding the boat to the side of the Antelope, and watching, while Bruce and Arthur followed Bart.

Bart first rushed to Pat.

“We’re not going to stand this. You’re ruining us all. If you don’t go aboard the boat, we’ll throw you overboard, and you’ll be glad to do it then. Bruce and Arthur, catch hold, and pitch Pat overboard if he don’t go to the boat.”

Speaking these words with breathless rapidity, Bart cut the rope with which Pat had bound himself, giving long slashes up and down. Bruce and Arthur seized him at the same moment, and as soon as the rope was severed, dragged him to where the boat was, ordering him on board, and threatening to throw him into the water if he refused. Pat was powerless. A few words of remonstrance were offered, but he was sternly silenced. He was thus overpowered, and so, yielding to necessity, he got on board the boat. There he seated himself in the stern, and, bowing his head, began a long, low, wailing Irish “keen,” which is a species of lamentation in the presence of death.

This scene appeared to produce some effect upon Wade. It roused him from his lethargy. It seemed as though this man was a mere machine; and though in ordinary circumstances he was able of going through certain routine duties, in any extraordinary case he was utterly helpless, and his dull and inert nature became hopelessly imbecile. But now an idea of his situation seemed at last to have penetrated to his brain, and accordingly, rising to his feet, he went to the boat. Then he slowly and solemnly passed over the Antelope’s side, and took his seat near Pat. He looked at the others with a dull stare, and then turning to Pat, he remarked, in a low, confidential tone, “My name’s Wade, an my ole ‘oman’s name’s Gipson; an you’ll not find many o’ that name in this country. No, sir.”

After which he heaved a sigh, and relapsed into himself. As to Pat, he took no notice of this confidence imparted to him, but went on with his Irish lamentation.

“Ow—O-o-o-o-ow—to only think—this bit ov a boat sure—an in the wide an impty say—an me a bindin meself to the only safety; for the ship-wracked sayman must always bind himsilf to a mast. And, O-o-o-b-o-o-o-w, but it was a bitter, crool thing, so it was, to tear a poor boy from his solitary rifuge—an dhrive him here into a bit ov a boat—to sail over the impty say—an from the last rifuge—where safety was, an O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! but it’s the croolty ov it that braks me heart!”

The summary treatment with which the boys had disposed of Pat, was not to be applied to Solomon, or to Captain Corbet. They tried to coax these, and persuade them.

Solomon, however, was obdurate.

“My ’vice to you, boys, an you, in tiklar, mas’r Bart,” said he, “is to clar out ob dis yer sinkin schooner, ef yer don want to git a duckin ob de wustest sort. She’s a goin down—you’d betta believe—dat’s so.”

“O, come, come, Solomon; we can’t wait. You’re making us all risk our lives,” said Bart, imploringly, coaxing him as he would coax an insane man. “Come along; don’t keep us here. The schooner’ll sink and drag the boat down, if we don’t keep farther away.”

“Darsn’t,” said Solomon. “Couldn’t, darsn’t—no how.”

“O, come.”

“Darsn’t—fraid ob dat ar ole woman, wid de broomstick, de tongs, de fence-pole, an de red-hot gridiron. Tell you what, it stings—it does, dreadful—it does so—”

“O, come. She shall never trouble you. Never.”

“Who’s to go skewrity for dat ar statement? Nobody can skewer her. No. Better be drown-ded, dan walloped to def with hay-forks. Nobody can skewer dat ar ole woman, dough; gracious sakes, she knows how to skewer me ebery time she lay hand on a pitchfork or a meat-skewer. Yah, yah, yah!”

At this ill-timed levity Bart and the others turned away in despair and disgust.

They hurried aft.

There stood the venerable Corbet. As they drew near he gave a start, and a smile came over his reverend countenance.

“Wal, boys,” said he, in a tone of kindly welcome, “how d’ye do? Pleased to see you.”

He spoke precisely as if he was receiving a call from some favorite guests. The tone pained the boys, and distressed them greatly.

“Captain,” said Bruce, hurriedly, “the Antelope’s sinking. A moment more and you’ll be lost. Come with us in the boat. Come.”

And, laying his hand on the captain’s arm, he sought to drag him away.

But the captain quietly though firmly, disengaged himself.

“Excuse me, young sir,” said the venerable navigator, very politely; “but I’m captain of this here craft; an, being sich, I ain’t got no call to leave her till the last man. You git to your boat, an I’ll retire when the time comes.”

The captain spoke with dignity. He announced a principle which involves the highest duty of every commander of a ship, and the boys knew it. His dignity overawed them.

“But come now, captain,” said Bart, “there isn’t a moment to lose.”

“I ain’t, a goin ever to hev it written on my tume,” said the captain, in a calm voice, “that me—Captain Corbet—ever desarted his post, or forgot his umble dooty as commander of a vessel. No, the Antelope’ll see that, her captain’s jist as much principle an honor as any of them swell navigators that sail in clipper ships over the boosom of the briny deep.”

At this moment there was a long-drawn, bubbling, gurgling sound, that came up from the hold of the Antelope, and startled the boys exceedingly.

“Come, come, captain,” cried Bruce. “She’s sinking now. There isn’t a moment to spare.”

“Wal, boys, you jist hurry off into that thar boat, an don’t mind me. I know my dooty. You can’t expect me to leave this here deck till the last man. It don’t signify argufyin. Hurry off.”

At this moment there was another sound; something between a gasp and a gurgle. It seemed like the death-rattle of the Antelope.

“She’s going down, boys!” cried Bart. Involuntarily they retreated towards the boat. But here they paused yet again, for there was a brief respite, and the Antelope was yet afloat.

“Won’t you come, captain?” cried Bart.

“O, all right,” said Captain Corbet, waving his hand; “all right. You jest get aboard the boat. Don’t you mind me. Remember, I’m the captain, an I’ve go............