“Look at Willie,” shouted the captain in great glee. “Clap on to the starboard windlass brake, son.”
Frank saw the Italians ranged about what he supposed was the windlass in the bow. He took his place among them, grasping one of the bars.
“Break down!” came the next order, and Frank and the Italians obeyed, bearing up and down on the bars till the slack of the anchor chain came home and stretched taut and dripping from the hawse-holes.
“'Vast heavin’!”
Frank released his hold on the brake. Orders came thick and fast now, and Frank’s experience with his own sailboat stood him in good stead, and soon the schooner was beating out to sea.
The wind blew violent and cold, and the spray was flying like icy small-shot. The schooner rolled and plunged and heaved and sank and rose again. Frank was drenched to the skin and sore in every joint.
The captain at length ordered the cook to give the men their food.
“Get forward, son,” he commanded, fixing Frank with his eye.
Frank descended below. The Italians were already there, sitting on the edges of their bunks. The cook brought in supper, stewed beef and pork. A liquor that bore a slight resemblance to coffee was served. This was Black Jack.
“Well,” muttered Frank, looking at the mess of which the Italians were eating hungrily, “I’ve got to come to it some time.”