“Uncle Isaac,” said he, “the scattering frames are all in, and nearly all the others. You can see the shape of her. How do you like her? I’ll make any alterations that you or father think for the best.”
“Don’t disturb anything. Don’t start a cross-band or a ribband. She’ll steer well, carry like blazes, sail well for a full vessel, or I’m much mistaken. Joe and your father are of the same opinion.”
“She looks better than I expected,” said Charlie, drawing a long breath, struggling to conceal his delight under an appearance of indifference. “I wish we were able to finish her in good shape, smooth her up, and paint her.”
“I can see the boat-model in her. You haven’t got that out of your head, and I hope you never will.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Uncle Isaac. I’ll build a yawl for her, that shall be as handsome as any of the boats Isaac will run afoul of—you see if I don’t. Do you think it would do to plank with these green plank? or would they shrink all up—make an open seam to eat up oakum?”
“Shrink? No, indeed! They are froze as hard as a rock, and won’t shrink one mite if you put them on frozen.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed. A piece of timber, hard-frozen, is as small as ever it will be. I’ve laid a house-floor with boards green from the mill, in the dead of winter, put them down froze, and the next July you couldn’t put a pin in the joints.”
“Then I will plank her up, and knock off till spring. It is not profitable to hire in these short, cold days. John and I will do what we can this winter, which will make our money hold out.”
“What are you going to make your treenails of?”