“Bah! man,” replied Oswald; “there’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and as good sticks growing as ever were felled; but I guess we’ll pay pretty dear for our spars when we get to Liverpool,—but that concerns the owners.”
The wind, which, at the time of its sudden change to the southward and eastward, had blown with the force of a hurricane, now settled into a regular strong gale, such as sailors are prepared to meet and laugh at. The sky was also bright and clear, and they had not the danger of a lee shore. It was a delightful change after a night of darkness, danger, and confusion and the men worked that they might get sufficient sail on the ship to steady her, and enable them to shape a course.
“I suppose now that we have the trysail on her forward, the captain will be for running for it,” observed one who was busy turning in a dead-eye.
“Yes,” replied the boatswain; “and with this wind on our quarter we shan’t want much sail, I’ve a notion.”
“Well, then, one advantage in losing your mast—you haven’t much trouble about the rigging.”
“Trouble enough, though, Bill, when we get in,” replied another, gruffly; “new lower rigging to parcel and sarve, and every block to turn in afresh.”
“Never mind, longer in port—I’ll get spliced.”
“Why, how often do you mean to get spliced, Bill? You’ve a wife in every State, to my sartin knowledge.”
“I ain’t got one at Liverpool, Jack.”
“Well, you may take one there, Bill; for you’ve been sweet upon that nigger girl for these last three weeks.”