Then, too, the boat’s motion was not that of a steamer. She was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. Water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. All these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother.
“Feelin’ better?” said the boy, with a grin. “Hev some coffee?”
He brought a tin cup full and sweetened it with molasses.
“Isn’t there milk?” said Harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there.
“Well, no,” said the boy. “Ner there ain’t likely to be till ’baout mid-September. ’Tain’t bad coffee. I made it.”
Harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously.
“I’ve dried your clothes. Guess they’ve shrunk some,” said the boy. “They ain’t our style much—none of ’em. Twist round an’ see if you’re hurt any.”
Harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries.
“That’s good,” the boy said heartily. “Fix yerself an’ go on deck. Dad wants to see you. I’m his son—Dan, they call me—an’ I’m cook’s helper an’ everything else aboard that’s too dirty for the men. There ain’t no boy here ’cep’ me sence Otto went overboard—an’ he was only a Dutchy, an’ twenty year old at that. How’d you come to fall off in a dead flat ca’am?”
“ ’Twasn’t a calm,” said Harvey, sulkily. “It was a gale, and I was seasick. Guess I must have rolled over the rail.”