“Oh!  One hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-money—­for one month only!  You don’t remember hittin’ anything when you fell over, do you?  Crack agin a stanchion, le’s say.  Old man Hasken o’ the East Wind”—­Troop seemed to be talking to himself—­“he tripped on a hatch an’ butted the mainmast with his head—­hardish.  ’Baout three weeks afterwards, old man Hasken he would hev it that the “East Wind” was a commerce-destroyin’ man-o’-war, an’ so he declared war on Sable Island because it was Bridish, an’ the shoals run aout too far.  They sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head an’ feet appearin’, fer the rest o’ the trip, an’ now he’s to home in Essex playin’ with little rag dolls.”

Harvey choked with rage, but Troop went on consolingly:  “We’re sorry fer you.  We’re very sorry fer you—­an’ so young.  We won’t say no more abaout the money, I guess.”

“’Course you won’t.  You stole it.”

“Suit yourself.  We stole it ef it’s any comfort to you.  Naow, abaout goin’ back.  Allowin’ we could do it, which we can’t, you ain’t in no fit state to go back to your home, an’ we’ve jest come on to the Banks, workin’ fer our bread.  We don’t see the ha’af of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; an’ with good luck we’ll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks o’ September.”

“But—­but it’s May now, and I can’t stay here doin’ nothing just because you want to fish.  I can’t, I tell you!”

“Right an’ jest; jest an’ right.  No one asks you to do nothin’.  There’s a heap as you can do, for Otto he went overboard on Le Have.  I mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we f’und there.  Anyways, he never come back to deny it.  You’ve turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned.  I mistrust, though, there’s ruther few things you kin do.  Ain’t thet so?”

“I can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore,” said Harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about “piracy,” at which Troop almost—­not quite—­smiled.

“Excep’ talk.  I’d forgot that.  You ain’t asked to talk more’n you’ve a mind to aboard the ‘We’re Here’.  Keep your eyes open, an’ help Dan to do ez he’s bid, an’ sechlike, an’ I’ll give you—­you ain’t wuth it, but I’ll give—­ten an’ a ha’af a month; say thirty-five at the end o’ the trip.  A little work will ease up your head, and you kin tell us all abaout your dad an’ your ma an’ your money afterwards.”

“She’s on the steamer,” said Harvey, his eyes flling with tears.  “Take me to New York at once.”

“Poor woman—­poor woman!  When she has you back she’ll forgit it all, though.  There’s eight of us on the ‘We’re Here’, an’ ef we went back naow—­it’s more’n a thousand mile—­we’d lose the season.  The men they wouldn’t hev it, allowin’ I was agreeable.”

“But my father would make it all right.”

“He’d try.  I don’t doubt he’d try,” said Troop; “but a whole season’s catch is eight men’s bread; an’ you’ll be better in your health when you see him in the fall.  Go forward an’ help Dan.  It’s ten an’ a ha’af a month, e I said, an’ o’ course, all f’und, same e the rest o’ us.”