“No, ‘tain’t, is it, Dad?  Not unless you sing the very las’ verse.  You can’t learn me anything on Jonahs!”

“What’s that?” said Harvey.  “What’s a Jonah?”

“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.”

“Master!” said the cook, pointing to Harvey.  “Man!” and he pointed to Dan.

“That’s news.  Haow soon?” said Dan, with a laugh.

“In some years, and I shall see it.  Master and man—­man and master.”

“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,” said Dan as his father departed.