The girl shook her head. “No! I’ll be up and give you and Juddy your breakfast. Good-night!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They got the West Wind down to the end of the wharf on a cold March morning. It was dark and the sky was overcast, and as he hauled on the schooner’s mooring lines, Donald wondered how it was that ships invariably seemed to sail at unearthly morning hours—hours when the soporific influence is strongest and vitality is at its lowest ebb. He called to mind the morning he came down to the Kelvinhaugh, and the spirit of romance and adventure which filled him then, until the actual experiences of sea-faring in the barque dissipated his rosy visions and made him wonder what there was in the life that sends lads to sea. He recalled the stirring voyage in the Helen Starbuck—an adventure which brought back some of the glamor and fascination of the windy sea-roads to his soul, and now he was outwardbound on a new traverse with the deep-sea fishermen of Nova Scotia. Would he like the life? He wondered. If he didn’t, he would have to make a cast back into the merchant service, or give up all thoughts of a nautical vocation and stay ashore. He didn’t like the thought of the latter alternative—sure testimony that Old Ocean had him in its thrall.
“All right, boys, she’s daown far enough!” Skipper Nickerson was singing out. “Aft here, my sons, an’ git yer mains’l on her.” Eighteen men tallied on to the throat and peak halliards, and with the skipper directing them with a “Hold yer peak! Up on yer throat!” and vice-versa, they soon had the big sail up. “Throat an’ peak jigs, naow, boys!” and the gang swayed up the sail until it set like a board, with the wrinkles running from peak to tack.
“Fores’l, naow, an’ when you’re ready, give her th’ jumbo!” To Donald, “Jump on the wharf, Don, an’ cast off th’ bow line, then stand-by yer starn line.”
They soon got the foresail up, jigged and the halliards belayed, and Donald cast off the bow line as the jumbo, or fore-stays’l was run up. “Make yer jumbo tail-rope fast to wind’ard!” cried Captain Nickerson, “and when she pays off, give her the jib an’ hang on to yer weathersheet!”
Standing by the stern mooring, Donald gazed up at the Nickerson home and fancied he could see a female figure looking out of one of the upper windows. He saw her wave a handkerchief, and he returned the fare-well gesture. It was Ruth Nickerson—he could see that even in the half light—and he wondered if she was waving to him or her brother. He waved again, and the salute was returned. “Alright, Don!” came the skipper’s voice. “Leggo yer starn mooring an’ jump aboard!” He slipped the loop off the spile and leaped aboard as the West Wind payed off with her heads’ls a-weather. The skipper spun the wheel and paced athwart the quarter staring at the anchored vessels ahead—some of whom were getting under way.
“Your sister is at the window, captain,” said Donald, still looking up at the house. The other turned and waved a hand. “Good little kid is Ruthie,” he remarked to McKenzie. “A good little girl—full of fun, an’ clever as they make ’em. She always was a favorite of mine. I’ve got a box of chocolate mush in my bunk which she gave me this morning—” Donald would have liked to continue the conversation in this strain, but the skipper broke off. “Skip for’ard, Don, an’ leggo that tail-rope an’ weather jib sheet!”