“So’m I, Mas’ Don—sailor boy. You seem getting your head pretty well now, Mas’ Don, when we’re up aloft.”
“That’s what I was thinking of you, Jem.”
“Well, yes, sir, tidy—tidy like, and I s’pose it arn’t much worse than coming down that there rope when we tried to get away; but I often feel when I’m lying out on the yard, with my feet in the stirrup, that there’s a precious little bit between being up there and lying down on the deck, never to get up again.”
“You shouldn’t think of it, Jem. I try not to.”
“So do I, but you can’t help it sometimes. How long have we been at sea now?”
“Six months, Jem.”
“Is it now? Don’t seem so long. I used to think I should get away before we’d been aboard a week, and it’s six months, and we arn’t gone. You do mean to go if you get a chance?”
“Yes, Jem,” said Don, frowning. “I said I would, and I will.”
“Arn’t it being a bit obstinate like, Mas’ Don?”
“Obstinate? What, to do what I said I’d do?”