Nickerson slapped the weather poop rail with his hand. “Go it, you scow! Travel naow an’ let’s see what ye kin do. You’ve a hundred an’ seventy-five miles to make to Diego Ramirez, so slog along, you big ugly plug, slog along!” And to Donald, “standing-by” on the lee-side of the poop, he grinned, “Heave the log, son!”
The hands for’ard had an eye on the poop. “What’s he doin’?” queried someone—“he,” of course, meant Nickerson.
“They’re heavin’ th’ log,” came the reply from an observer.
“Humph,” grunted a fo’c’sle oracle. “Bet he’ll be singin’ out for th’ ruddy main-r’yal in a minute!”
McKenzie, Jenkins and an ordinary seaman had finished their speed recording task and were reeling in the line. “What’s she makin’?” asked the Old Man.
“Ten and a half, sir!”
Nickerson nodded. “Ornery old barge,” he grunted, “an’ this is her best point o’ sailing.” Then to Thompson, “Mister! Give her th’ main-r’yal!”
The fo’c’sle observer qualified as a long-distance lip-reader. “He’s told young Thompson to give her th’ main-r’yal. Spit on yer hands, lads, an’ limber yer j’ints for a pull at sheets ’n halliards—” Thompson had run along the bridge and his voice interrupted the prophet’s observations, “Main-royal, men! Lively now!”
Moore was sent aloft to cast the gaskets adrift, and on deck the crew sheeted home and mast-headed the yard to “A Yankee ship came down the river,” and they chorused and hauled the sheets to the t’gallantyard-arms and yanked the yard up ere Moore was off it. Soloed the chanteyman:—
“Were you ever in Congo River?”