“Look out there!”
Will Bertram dodged aside as he was walking along the wharf, near where the Golden Moose lay at anchorage and a broad rope-loop was thrown around a dock post from a yawl coming ashore.
“Ah, it’s you, my lad,” cried the same hearty voice. “What’s that you’ve got?” and fat and jolly Jack Marcy, boatswain of the Golden Moose, clambered ashore and confronted the lad.
“A new figure-head,” explained the latter. “The last one was lost in the storm.”
“And a great storm it was, boy. Where are you going—down to the ship?”
“Yes; I want to find Captain Morris.”
“Well, you’ll find him in squally temper, I tell you that, but not at the ship.”
“Where is he, then?”
“At the shipping office down the wharf. Come along, lad, I’ll show the way and help you, if you don’t mind.”
“It ain’t heavy, Jack,” replied Will, as he trudged along in the boatswain’s wake. “When does the Moose sail?”