The commodore was a stoical, gruff old veteran of the Mississippi—whereby his title—and this advice was no small concession.
“We’ll be careful,” cried Hal.
“Oh, it’s safe enough,” grunted the commodore, lapsing into the apparent surliness which covered a really kind heart.
The boys proceeded to their boat, and unlocked its painter from the larger chain to which all the boats were fastened.
The craft of which they were joint owners was of that type known on the Mississippi as scull-boat or sink-boat. It was low and flat, with a smooth, dish-shaped keel, sharp prow, and overhanging stern. Its bows were decked, and a combing ran along the gunwale.
It was a very convenient, reliable boat. Under the decked bows could be stowed a surprising amount of stuff. Being made from thin strips of cedar, it was exceedingly buoyant and light; and in consequence of its width and “flatness,” sitting as it did so low in the water, capsizing was almost impossible. As an extra precaution, however, Mr. Miller and Mr. Lucas had caused air-cylinders of copper to be inserted, inside the bows.
There were no seats or thwarts. The boys sprawled about on the straw in the bottom. The one who rowed sat on a soap-box; the one who sculled—for in the stern was a hole for a sculling-oar—perched on the gunwale.
You see, the boat was so steady that it did not much matter how the persons in it acted.
Sometimes the boys rowed, sometimes they sculled, and sometimes, if in a hurry or fought by a strong current, they both rowed and sculled. When not in use the boat was quartered with Commodore Jones.