“Don’t you feel scared?”
“No, not yet. I say, what’s your name?”
“Johannes, sir. Well, are you going to help me?”
“Yes, if you show me what to do.”
“Hand me the rails, my lad, one by one, shortest first, while I lash them across from side to side.”
“But what for?”
“What for, my lad? So that we can get into the crow’s-nest when she’s hauled right up and made fast yonder.”
“But why won’t the ratlines do?”
“Because they wouldn’t be handy, my lad. There, you’ll soon see. Get the shortest one ready,” he continued, as he opened his big Norwegian knife by pressing on a spring at the side, and holding it upside down, when the long keen blade which lay in the handle dropped out to its full length, and the removal of the thumb from the spring fixed it in its place.
Then the man climbed a little higher up the shrouds, so that he could reach to where they came to an end on the main topgallant mast, about one-fourth of its length below the truck and halyards, thrust one leg through between the ratlines, so as to twist it round and get a good hold, leaving his hands free; and Steve at once followed his example, and then loosened the shortest lath-like piece of wood. This done, and the piece held ready, he had time to look about him, while the sailor untwisted some of his stout tarred twine and cut it into short lengths ready for use.