“Mr. Hardy, unmoor ship! Hoist a jack at the fore and fire a gun for a pilot! Get the frigate under weigh, sir, and be quick about it!”
“Ay, ay, sir!”
As Hardy rapidly passed his old cronies, who were tramping along the deck as he mounted the after-ladder, he said, with a nod,
“By the Lord! I haven’t seen the commodore in such a breeze since he blew that pirate out of water at Darien.”
In a minute the “Monongahela’s” bell struck two, and the boatswain and his mates, piping as if their hairy throats would split, roared out, “All hands!” and a moment later, “All hands unmoor ship!”
“What does that mean?” said a cook of a mess to Jim Dreen, the old quarter-master, who had just come down from his watch.
“Mean? why, you lazy, blind duff b’iler, it means that I’ve lost my blessed dinner.”
“Hallo!” says Rat to Beaver, “what’s that? Unmoor ship on my liberty day! I swear I’ll resign!”
No you won’t, reefers, but you’ll trip aloft as fast as your little legs will carry you––Mouse in company––up to the fore, main, and mizzen tops, and squeak there as much as you like; but jump about and look sharp that nothing goes wrong, or Mr. Hardy will be down upon you like a main tack.