“How stupid of me,” he said. “I ought to have known. Crow’s-nest, of course.”
He walked near to the foot of the main-mast just as the Norwegian sailor who had been up aloft turned the tub down with its bottom forward, went on one knee and pushed the bottom inward, one end rising up and showing that the other side worked upon hinges.
“She’ll want a little iling,” said the man; then, turning the tub upright again, the bottom fell into its place with a snap, and the man turned and took the ball of tarred twine from McByle, and walked to the side.
“Now, boy,” he said to Watty Links, “bring up that stuff.”
He took hold of the shrouds, swung himself on to the bulwarks, and began to mount the ratlines as calmly as if it were a broad staircase, though the vessel was careening over, and rising and falling on the swell.
“Now, my lad, up with you,” said the captain. “Stop there, and hand him the pieces as he wants them.”
The boy’s face wrinkled up, and he looked down at his bundle of many-lengthed laths, then up at the top-mast, and then at the captain.
“Well, did you hear what I said, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why don’t you run up?”