job we ain’t crowded with craft hereaways. But I ain’t goin’ to up anchor fer Chatham. She may hold.”
The wind, which had hauled round, rose at sundown and blew steadily. There was not enough sea, though, to disturb even a dory’s tackle, but the Carrie Pitman was a law unto herself. At the end of the boys’ watch they heard the crack-crack-crack of a huge muzzle-loading revolver aboard her.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah!” sung Dan. “Here she comes, Dad; butt-end first, walkin’ in her sleep same’s she done on ’Queereau.”
Had she been any other boat Disko would have taken his chances, but now he cut the cable as the Carrie Pitman , with all the North Atlantic to play in, lurched down directly upon them. The We’re Here , under jib and riding-sail, gave her no more room than was absolutely necessary—Disko did not wish to spend a week hunting for his cable—but scuttled up into the wind as the Carrie passed within easy hail, a silent and angry boat, at the mercy of a raking broadside of Bank chaff.
“Good evenin’,” said Disko, raising his headgear, “an’ haow does your garden grow?”
“Go to Ohio an’ hire a mule,” said Uncle Salters. “We don’t want no farmers here.”
“Will I lend you my dory-anchor?” cried Long Jack.
“Unship your rudder an’ stick it in the mud,” bawled Tom Platt.
“Say!” Dan’s voice rose shrill and high, as he stood on the wheel-box. “Sa‑ay! Is there a strike in the o‑ver‑all factory; or hev they hired girls, ye Shackamaxons?”