The Lilly, brought to the wind, once more stood back along the course on which she had just before been sailing.  She was then hove to.  By the captain’s calculations, she had reached the locality where Bill had fallen overboard.  All hands were on deck and every eye strained, endeavouring to pierce the thick gathering gloom in the direction where it was supposed he might still be.

Friendly voices shouted out, “Bill Sunnyside!  Sunshine Bill!  Answer, lad!  Answer!” Still no reply came.

“I knew it would be so,” muttered old Grim.  “The lad was always boasting of being in such good luck, or something of that sort.  And now this is what his good luck has come to.  Well, well, his fate has been that of many, so there’s nothing strange in it.”

With this philosophical remark old Grim walked forward; but still, somehow or other, his heart felt sorry at losing the poor lad, and he went and peered down to leeward and then looked to windward again, in the hopes that his eyes, which were among the sharpest on board, might catch a glimpse of the lad.  If he was clinging to the life-buoy he might be all right, but where that was, was the question.  Minutes passed away, and still no one could discover Bill.  The captain pulled out his watch and went to the binnacle-lamp.

“Twenty minutes,” he remarked to Mr Collinson.  “A strong man could scarcely swim as long in such a sea as this.”

“But he may have got hold of the buoy, sir,” observed Mr Collinson.

“True!  If he has, I wish we could see him.  I do not like to give him up.”

Another five minutes passed.  Again the captain looked at his watch.  The time had appeared an age to him, as it had to most on board.  He took another turn on deck, and then looked out once more.

“Does nobody see him?” he asked; and there was sorrow and regret in his tone.

There was no answer.  The silence was very sad.  Once more he returned to the lamp.

“Half an hour has passed,” he observed to Mr Barker.  “I am afraid the matter is hopeless.”

“I am afraid so too,” answered the lieutenant, who was a kind-hearted man.

“It must be done!” he said.  “Hands, wear ship!” he shouted out, in a startling voice, evidently giving the order with no good will.

The men were hurrying to their stations to obey it, when Grimshaw shouted out:

“I heard a voice.  It’s Bill!  It’s Bill!  Away to windward there!”

“Silence, fore and aft,” cried the captain; and directly afterwards, borne down by the gale, there came a loud, strange, wild cry.

“That’s him!  There’s no mistake about it,” cried Grimshaw; “hurrah!”

The crew gave a shout in reply.

“It will keep up the poor fellow’s spirits,” observed the captain.  “Now, silence, men.”  And now the awful thought crossed his mind, “Can I allow a boat to be lowered in this broken, heavy sea, with the greatest probability of her being capsized, and all hands in her lost?” These words were uttered partly aloud.

“I’ll go in her, sir,” said Mr Collinson.  “There will be no lack of volunteers.”

“Volunteers alone then must go,” answered the captain.  “The risk is a fearful one, yet I cannot allow the poor lad to perish.”

Scarcely had Mr Collinson shouted out, “I am going, lads!  Volunteers for the boat,” than numbers of the crew came rushing aft, Jack Windy and Grimshaw among them.

“I don’t suppose we shall pick up the lad, after all,” growled the latter, “but we ought to try, I suppose.”

As no man pulled a stouter oar than he did, Mr Collinson gladly accepted him, as he did Windy.

Four other men were selected, and waiting for a favourable lull, the boat was lowered.  The bowman, however, in shoving off, lost his balance, and overboard he went.  Happily, the man next to him had just time to seize him by the leg, and haul him in, though not without difficulty his oar was saved.  Not without sad forebodings of the fate of the boat’s crew, did the captain see her leave the ship’s side.

“No man can handle a boat better than Collinson,” he observed to Mr Barker, who was by his side, “that’s one comfort.”

Away the boat pulled amidst the foaming broken seas, and was soon lost to sight in the thick gloom which had settled down over the ocean.

“I should be thankful to see something of them again,” observed the captain to Mr Barker.  “The boat has been a long time away.  How long do you think?”

“I did not look at my watch when she was lowered,” answered the first lieutenant, “but it is some time; yet the sea is a dangerous one; but, as you say, sir, Collinson is wonderful handy in a boat, and he and his crew will do what men can do, there is no doubt about that.”

Still the captain looked very anxious, so did others on board.  Even in the attempt to pick up Bill, should he have floated so long, the boat might be swamped.  It was the most critical time; for the helmsman looking towards the man he wished to save, might watch with less care the approach of a curling sea.  Had old Grim been on board he would have been prognosticating dire disaster, but as he had gone away in the boat, he knew better than anybody else on board, what had happened.  Many had become very anxious.  Tommy Rebow, who was very fond of Bill, as well as of Jack Windy, wrung his hands, almost bursting into tears, as, not seeing them return, he began to fear that they both had been lost.

Meantime, where was Bill?  On falling from aloft, and striking the chain-span, which, though it did not break his bones, broke his fall, he bounded off into the foaming sea.  How he had not been killed he could not tell, but one thing was certain, it was not his head that struck the chain, but, as Jack Windy observed, it was the other end of his body.  The fact at all events was, that he reached the foaming raging water not at all the worse for his fall.  Though he went under for a moment, he soon rose with his head above the surface.  He turned himself round once or twice to ascertain that all was right as far as his body was concerned, and then quietly contented himself with keeping his head as high above the foam as he well could.  He did not think about sharks, or it might have made him still more uncomfortable.  As to swimming after the ship, that he knew to be an impossibility.

“If I swim at all I shall only tire myself,” he thought, so he just threw himself on his back, and kept his eyes fixed on the ship, as she flew away from him.

“It will be some time before she can be up to me again,” he thought.  “Captain Trevelyan is not the man to desert one of his people, even a little chap like me, and maybe he will remember what he said to my mother.  If I keep my clothes on me, I shall not be able to float as long as without them.”

Thinking thus, for he did not utter the words aloud, he managed to kick off one shoe, then the other.  He felt lighter without them.  The trousers were next to be got rid of.  There was some risk in pulling them off, lest he might get his feet entangled in them, but a sailor’s trousers are not very large.  So Bill managed to draw up one of his legs and get hold of the foot of the trousers; then he slipped the other leg quickly out, and off went his trousers after his shoes.  His shirt was the next thing to be rid of, but there was a risk of the tails getting over his head, so he rolled them up, and then getting one arm clear, in a twinkling whisked it off, and there he was, floating out in the ocean, with no more clothes on than when he was born; but he felt much lighter, and when the seas came roaring round him he kept his head more easily out of the curling foam.  While getting off his clothes, he saw the life-buoy, with its bright light bursting forth, drop into the water, but it was too far off for him to attempt to reach it in that troubled sea.  Though, as has been said, he knew his captain too well to dread that he would desert him, it was a sore trial of his faith to see the ship sail on and on, till she vanished into gloom.  He had seen the ship wore round several times on different occasions.  He knew that was the way of getting her head in another direction, in such a sea as was now running.

“The captain will not leave me; no, no fear of that,” he thought, and presently, once more, as if to reward his confidence, he saw the ship appearing again through the gloom.  On she came, nearer and nearer.  He longed to strike out towards her, but he felt that the attempt would be useless, so he still lay floating with his hands moving, to prevent being rolled over and over by the seas.  On she came, her dark masts and sails seen clearly against the sky, but she seemed about to pass him at a distance.  Then he saw her heave-to.  And now his heart beat anxiously.  Would a boat be sent to pick him up?  He was still too far away to give him a hope of reaching it by swimming.  He thought, too, “If I sing out I shall exhaust myself, and be unable to keep afloat;” so he lay as before, hoping only as a person in his position could hope, that a boat might be lowered.  Yet he had been long enough at sea to know the danger of the operation.  He had heard of boats being lowered in such a sea as was then running, and all hands being lost out of them.  He waited and waited.  It seemed to him not as if one hour, but hour after hour passed away, and there lay the ship, and yet no one on board could see him, nor could he make himself heard, as he thought.

“They are looking for me, there’s no doubt about that,” he said to himself; “but I wish they would send a boat.”

If the water had been cold he could not have kept up, but it was just pleasant, and he felt his strength in no way exhausted.  At length, amid the hurly-burly and clashing of the sea round him, although the corvette was a long way to leeward, he heard Captain Trevelyan’s voice shouting out, “Up with the helm!  Square away the after-yards!”

“Now,” thought Bill, “I shall be left alone if I do not make myself heard;” and as he rose to the summit of a sea, he shouted out with might and main, “Lilly ahoy!”

“Hold fast!” cried the captain.  “Down with the helm again!” and then came a hearty cheer from the deck of the ship.

It convinced him that his voice had been heard, but now he had a long long time to wait.  He was sure that a boat was being lowered, but sometimes he pictured her to himself swamped alongside, and perhaps all those coming to his rescue cast into the foaming sea.  Anxiously he looked out for her.  How long it had seemed since he had shouted, and yet no help had come to him.  His confidence in his captain, however, was unabated.  He was sure that help would come, sooner or later.  All he had to do was to float till then.  Fortunately, he did not think of sharks, but still more fortunately, the sharks did not think of him.  At length he saw a dark object between him and the ship.  Yes!  Yes!  It was a boat!  Now it was hid from his sight.  Now he saw it again.

“Lilly ahoy!” he shouted out again, but not so loud as before.

“Hurrah!” some voices cried in return; “Cheer up, lad, cheer up; it’s all right!”

And then he saw without doubt a boat approaching, now making her way on the summit of a foaming sea, now again sinking into the trough, and being hid from his view.  Still on she came towards him.

“Cheer up, lad!” again shouted a voice.  It was that of old Grim.  He was sure he knew it.

At length there was the boat quite close to him.  Eager hands were ready to grasp him, but there was the danger of being struck by the bows of the boat, or the oars.

He watched his opportunity, and singing out, “I’ll make for the bow,” he struck forward.

Grimshaw’s arms were extended towards him, and in another instant he found himself grasped by those friendly hands, and hauled up into the boat.

“Why, the lad’s as slippery as an eel!” cried old Grim.  “Are you hurt, Bill?”

“No, thank you,” answered Bill.  “I’m hearty and strong, as if I had only been taking a swim for pleasure.”

“We must put you aft, though, and a jacket over you,” said old Grim.

Fortunately, one of the men had one on.  It was off in a moment, and wrapped round Bill, who was passed aft into the stern-sheets.

“Thank Heaven you are saved, boy.  The captain will be glad to hear it,” said Mr Collinson, as he was putting the boat’s head round.

And now once more she made for the ship.  Bill was quickly hauled up the side.

“Gripe him hard!” sung out old Grim, “or he will slip through your fists, lads; he’s got such a lot of seaweed round him.”

“Why, how is this?” exclaimed the captain, as he saw Bill’s condition.

Bill told him.

“You did wisely, lad,” he observed; “and now go below and turn into your hammock, and I will send the doctor and a stiff glass of grog, if he will let you have it.”

In another minute Bill was between the blankets; but the doctor, after feeling his pulse, pronounced him none the worse for his ducking.  The grog came out hissing hot from the captain’s cabin, but old Grim, who was standing by the boy’s hammock, declared it was somewhat too stiff for a youngster, and helped him with half the contents; for which kindness Bill was none the worse.

When Bill came on deck, the sun was shining brightly, the sea was blue and smooth, and the ship was running to the west, with studding-sails below and aloft.

“I told you so,” said Bill to a remark of old Grim’s.  “There’s the sun shining out as bright as ever, and, through the mercy of Him who looks after us poor sailors, not one of us has lost the number of his mess.”