“How in thunder d’ye work that out?” said Tom Platt.
“In my head, where I can see.”
“Haow?” This from all the others at once.
“I do not know, but so it will be.” He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him.
“Well,” said Dan, “a heap o’ things’ll hev to come abaout ’fore Harve’s any master o’ mine; but I’m glad the doctor ain’t choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the Fleet regardin’ his own special luck. Dunno ef it’s spreadin’ same’s smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman . That boat’s her own Jonah, sure—crews an’ gear made no differ to her driftin’. Jiminy Christmas! She’ll etch loose in a flat ca’am.”
“We’re well clear o’ the Fleet, anyway,” said Disko. “ Carrie Pitman an’ all.”
There was a rapping on the deck.
“Uncle Salters has catched his luck,”