“Hedn’t you ’baout’s well send the old man aboard? We’re runnin’ in fer more bait an’ graound-tackle. Guess you won’t want him, anyway, an’ this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. We’ll take care of him. He married my woman’s aunt.”
“I’ll give you anything in the boat,” said Troop.
“Don’t want nothin’, ’less, mebbe, an anchor that’ll hold. Say! Young Olley’s gittin’ kinder baulky an’ excited. Send the old man along.”
Penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and Tom Platt rowed him over. He went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all.
“And now,” said Penn, drawing a deep breath as though about to preach. “And now”—the erect body sank like a sword driven home into the scabbard; the light faded from the overbright eyes; the voice returned to its usual pitiful little titter—“and now,” said Pennsylvania Pratt, “do you think it’s too early for a little game of checkers, Mr. Salters?”
“The very thing—the very thing I was goin’ to say myself,” cried Salters promptly. “It beats all, Penn, how ye git on to what’s in a man’s mind.”
The little fellow blushed and meekly followed Salters forward.
“Up anchor! Hurry! Let’s quit these crazy waters,” shouted Disko, and never was he more swiftly obeyed.
“Now what in creation d’ye suppose is the meanin’ o’ that all?” said Long Jack, when they were working through the fog once more, damp, dripping, and bewildered.
“The way I sense it,” said Disko, at the wheel, “is this: The Jennie Cushman business comin’ on an empty stummick—”
“H‑he saw one of them go by,” sobbed Harvey.