“Ye’ll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there’s no sign I can see,” said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon.
And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing down, the Bank fog dropped on them, “between fish and fish,” as they say. It drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the colourless water. The men stopped dressing-down without a word. Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the windlass brakes into their sockets, and began to heave up the anchor; the windlass jarring as the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. Manuel and Tom Platt gave a hand at the last. The anchor came up with a sob, and the riding-sail bellied as Troop steadied her at the wheel. “Up jib and foresail,” said he.
“Slip ’em in the smother,” shouted Long Jack, making fast the jib-sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the foresail; and the foreboom creaked as the We’re Here looked up into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white.
“There’s wind behind this fog,” said Troop.
It was wonderful beyond words to Harvey; and the most wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional grunt from Troop, ending with, “That’s good, my son!”
“Never seen anchor weighed before?” said Tom Platt, to Harvey gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail.
“No. Where are we going?”
“Fish and make berth, as you’ll find out ’fore you’ve been a week aboard. It’s all new to you, but we never know what may come to us. Now, take me—Tom Platt—I’d never ha’ thought—”
“It’s better than fourteen dollars a month an’ a bullet in your belly,” said Troop, from the wheel. “Ease your jumbo a grind.”