The lighter was leaking
like a sieve. They splashed in the water at every step. The Capataz put
into Decoud's hands the handle of the pump which was fitted at the side
aft, and at once, without question or remark, Decoud began to pump in
utter forgetfulness of every desire but that of keeping the treasure
afloat. Nostromo hoisted the sail, flew back to the tiller, pulled at
the sheet like mad. The short flare of a match (they had been kept
dry in a tight tin box, though the man himself was completely wet),
disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over
the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew
now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in
the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is
divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine.
Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing
for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was
as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak.
There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the
damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking.
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