‘Another roll like that, and we shall have no masts,’ said Pullings, as the remaining crockery, the glasses and the inhabitants of the gun-room all shot over to the lee. ‘We’ll lose the mizzen first, Doctor,’ – picking Stephen tenderly out of the wreckage – ‘and so we’ll be a brig; then we’ll lose the foremast, so we’ll be a right little old sloop; then we’ll lose the main, and we’ll be a raft, which is what we ought to have begun as.’
