“We’ll hev to help him, else he’ll root an’ seed here,” said Dan.
“What’s the matter?” said Harvey. This was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. And the sea was horribly big and unexcited.
“Anchor’s fouled. Penn’s always losing ’em. Lost two this trip a’ready—on sandy bottom too—an’ Dad says next one he loses, sure’s fishin’, he’ll give him the kelleg. That ’u’d break Penn’s heart.”
“What’s a ‘kelleg’?” said Harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the storybooks.
“Big stone instid of an anchor. You kin see a kelleg ridin’ in the bows fur’s you can see a dory, an’ all the fleet knows what it means. They’d guy him dreadful. Penn couldn’t stand that no more’n a dog with a dipper to his tail. He’s so everlastin’ sensitive. Hello, Penn! Stuck again? Don’t try any more o’ your patents. Come up on her, and keep your rodin’ straight up an’ down.”
“It doesn’t move,” said the little man, panting. “It doesn’t move at all, and instead I tried everything.”
“What’s all this hurrah’s-nest for’ard?” said Dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience.
“Oh, that,” said Penn proudly, “is a Spanish windlass. Mr. Salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn’t move her.”
Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once.
“Haul up, Penn,” he said laughing, “er she’ll git stuck again.”