“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.”

They left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely.

“Oh, say, while I think of it, Harve,” said Dan when they were out of ear-shot, “Penn ain’t quite all caulked.  He ain’t nowise dangerous, but his mind’s give out.  See?”

“Is that so, or is it one of your father’s judgments?”

Harvey asked as he bent to his oars.  He felt he was learning to handle them more easily.

“Dad ain’t mistook this time.  Penn’s a sure ’nuff loony.”

“No, he ain’t thet exactly, so much ez a harmless ijut.  It was this way (you’re rowin’ quite so, Harve), an’ I tell you ’cause it’s right you orter know.  He was a Moravian preacher once.  Jacob Boiler wuz his name, Dad told me, an’ he lived with his wife an’ four children somewheres out Pennsylvania way.  Well, Penn he took his folks along to a Moravian meetin’—­camp-meetin’ most like—­an’ they stayed over jest one night in Johns-town.  You’ve heered talk o’ Johnstown?”

Harvey considered.  “Yes, I have.  But I don’t know why.  It sticks in my head same as Ashtabula.”