“You’ve forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye’ll larn.  There’s good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else ’twould be overboard.  D’ye follow me?  ‘Tis dollars an’ cents I’m puttin’ into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye’ve filled out ye can ship from Boston to Cuba an’ tell thim Long Jack larned you.  Now I’ll chase ye around a piece, callin’ the ropes, an’ you’ll lay your hand on thim as I call.”

He began, and Harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named.  A rope’s end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“When you own a boat,” said Tom Platt, with severe eyes, “you can walk.  Till then, take all orders at the run.  Once more—­to make sure!”

Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly.  Now he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy.  He looked at the other men, and saw that even Dan did not smile.  It was evidently all in the day’s work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin.  The same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, Penn, would stand the least nonsense.  One learns a great deal from a mere tone.  Long Jack called over half a dozen ropes, and Harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on Tom Platt.

“Ver’ good.  Ver’ good don,” said Manuel.  “After supper I show you a little schooner I make, with all her ropes.  So we shall learn.”

“Fust-class fer—­a passenger,” said Dan.  “Dad he’s jest allowed you’ll be wuth your salt maybe ’fore you’re draownded.  Thet’s a heap fer Dad.  I’ll learn you more our next watch together.”

“Taller!” grunted Disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows.  There was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping one to the other.

“Now I’ll learn you something Long Jack can’t,” shouted Tom Platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward.  “I’ll learn you how to fly the Blue Pigeon.  Shooo!”

Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner’s way, while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom.  The lead sung a deep droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round.

“Go ahead, man,” said Long Jack, impatiently.  “We’re not drawin’ twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog.  There’s no trick to ut.”

“Don’t be jealous, Galway.”  The released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward.