“It’s better than fourteen dollars a month an’ a bullet in your belly,” said Troop, from the wheel.  “Ease your jumbo a grind.”

“Dollars an’ cents better,” returned the man-o’-war’s man, doing something to a big jib with a wooden spar tied to it.  “But we didn’t think o’ that when we manned the windlass-brakes on the Miss Jim Buck, 1 outside Beau-fort Harbor, with Fort Macon heavin’ hot shot at our stern, an’ a livin’ gale atop of all.  Where was you then, Disko?”

“Jest here, or hereabouts,” Disko replied, “earnin’ my bread on the deep waters, an’ dodgin’ Reb privateers.  Sorry I can’t accommodate you with red-hot shot, Tom Platt; but I guess we’ll come aout all right on wind ’fore we see Eastern Point.”

There was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the foc’sle.  The rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house—­all save Uncle Salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands.

“Guess she’d carry stays’l,” said Disko, rolling one eye at his brother.

“Guess she wouldn’t to any sorter profit.  What’s the sense o’ wastin’ canvas?” the farmer-sailor replied.

The wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in Disko’s hands.  A few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote Uncle Salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot.  He rose sputtering, and went forward only to catch another.

“See Dad chase him all around the deck,” said Dan.  “Uncle Salters he thinks his quarter share’s our canvas.  Dad’s put this duckin’ act up on him two trips runnin’.  Hi!  That found him where he feeds.”  Uncle Salters had taken refuge by the foremast, but a wave slapped him over the knees.  Disko’s face was as blank as the circle of the wheel.

“Guess she’d lie easier under stays’l, Salters,” said Disko, as though he had seen nothing.

“Set your old kite, then,” roared the victim through a cloud of spray; “only don’t lay it to me if anything happens.  Penn, you go below right off an’ git your coffee.  You ought to hev more sense than to bum araound on deck this weather.”

“Now they’ll swill coffee an’ play checkers till the cows come home,” said Dan, as Uncle Salters hustled Penn into the fore-cabin.  “‘Looks to me like’s if we’d all be doin’ so fer a spell.  There’s nothin’ in creation deader-limpsey-idler’n a Banker when she ain’t on fish.”

“I’m glad ye spoke, Danny,” cried Long Jack, who had been casting round in search of amusement.  “I’d dean forgot we’d a passenger under that T-wharf hat.  There’s no idleness for thim that don’t know their ropes.  Pass him along, Tom Platt, an’ we’ll larn him.”

“’Tain’t my trick this time,” grinned Dan.  “You’ve got to go it alone.  Dad learned me with a rope’s end.”