Red Pawl was there, on the break of the quarter, talking with Spiess. The sailor had a bucket on a rope; and he and two or three of the men were scrubbing down the deck from the quarter forward. When they heard Black Pawl, the two men looked toward him, and Spiess turned to his work. Red watched his father.
The sun was just breaking above the horizon. Black Pawl glanced toward it, cast an eye about the sky. “A fair wind, Red,” he said good-humoredly. “Are you thinking we’ll be ready to get away this day?”
Red studied the skies, and he bit at the back of his hand. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You’ve done the work quickly,” said Black Pawl. “A good job of it.”
Red looked at his father and grinned, as though the older man were lying, and he knew it.
“I’m pleased with it,” Black Pawl added.
Red said: “It’s well you’re pleased.” There was a sardonic threat in his tone. But Black Pawl ignored it; he was in no mood to take swift offense at trifles. He walked to the after rail and stood there alone; presently he came back to where Red was, and said idly:
“Red, I’m thinking I’ll quit the sea after this cruise.”
Red Pawl said, grinning: “Aye, you’re getting old.”
Black Pawl shook his head good-humoredly. “No; ’tis not that, so much. But the sea irks me. I’d like to keep my feet on dry land for a spell before I die.”