“A Jonah’s anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it’s a man—sometimes it’s a boy—or a bucket. I’ve known a splittin’-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her,” said Tom Platt. “There’s all sorts o’ Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. I’d never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin’. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood . Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort o’ Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, an’ used to shine fiery O, nights in the nest.”
“And you believe that?” said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. “Haven’t we all got to take what’s served?”
A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. “Outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen,” said Disko. “Don’t you go makin’ a mock of Jonahs, young feller.”
“Well, Harve ain’t no Jonah. Day after we catched him,” Dan cut in, “we had a toppin’ good catch.”
The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly—a queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger.
“Murder!” said Long Jack. “Don’t do that again, doctor. We ain’t used to ut.”
“What’s wrong?” said Dan. “Ain’t he our mascot, and didn’t they strike on good after we’d struck him?”
“Oh! yess,” said the cook. “I know that, but the catch iss not finish yet.”
“He ain’t goin’ to do us any harm,” said Dan, hotly. “Where are ye hintin’ an’ edgin’ to? He’s all right.”
“No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny.”
“That all?” said Dan, placidly. “He wun’t—not by a jugful.”