The carpenter reported that the pumps were holding their own and no more, but that a dozen cross-seas would split us open like rotten medlar.

When night fell, the weather promised to grow worse, and the rain and hail at our backs made it almost impossible to keep up our heads.
"It's all very well," said Tim, who had been down to the cabin to inspect the chart, "but this can't go on.

We've had water-room all day, but I reckon we are closing in on the land every yard now, and if we don't put out her head we shall find ourselves on the Connemara coast." "Better run for Galway, and say nothing," said I.
"Too late now.

I wish we had." "Out she goes then," said I; "it's a question between going down where we are or breaking to pieces against Slyne Head." "That's just it," said Tim.

"The captain's dead drunk below.