he’s bid, an’ sechlike, an’ I’ll give you—you ain’t wuth it, but I’ll give—ten an’ a ha’af a month; say thirty-five at the end o’ the trip. A little work will ease up your head, and you kin tell us all abaout your dad an’ your ma an’ your money afterwards.”
“She’s on the steamer,” said Harvey, his eyes filling with tears. “Take me to New York at once.”
“Poor woman—poor woman! When she has you back she’ll forgit it all, though. There’s eight of us on the We’re Here , an’ ef we went back naow—it’s more’n a thousand mile—we’d lose the season. The men they wouldn’t hev it, allowin’ I was agreeable.”
“But my father would make it all right.”
“He’d try. I don’t doubt he’d try,” said Troop; “but a whole season’s catch is eight men’s bread; an’ you’ll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. Go forward an’ help Dan. It’s ten an’ a ha’af a month, ez I said, an’ o’ course, all f’und, same ez the rest o’ us.”
“Do you mean I’m to clean pots and pans and things?” said Harvey.
“An’ other things. You’ve no call to shout, young feller.”
“I won’t! My father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle”—Harvey stamped on the deck—“ten times over, if you take me to New York safe; and—and—you’re in a hundred and thirty by me, anyhow.”
“Haow?” said Troop, the iron face darkening.
“How? You know how, well enough. On top of all that, you want me to do menial work”—Harvey was very proud of that adjective—“till the Fall. I tell you I will not . You hear?”