“Well, you don’t go duck-shooting with a brass band, do you? But there’s no use in talking, we’re on the slide and we’ll have to slither, and brass band or no, I’m going to get him. Come on, we’ve gotta get to work.”
He had been at work since six o’clock, it seemed, on the ratlines, and he was now overhauling all the standing rigging. That done, they attacked the running.
In the middle of these operations it began to dawn on them that they were observed. Sometimes there was quite a little group on the wharf watching and criticising. George noticed it first.
“How the devil have they got to know the whereabouts of the boat?” asked George. “The papers said nothing about Sullivan’s Wharf.”
“It’s Jake,” said Hank. “He’ll have been all over the wharves talking; take a pull on that halyard. Lord, these blocks will never do, I’ll have to go hunt in the sail-room to see if I can’t turn out some better. What’s the time? Getting on for one? Well, I’ve got some grub down below and I vote we have a bite, and after that, if you don’t mind, will you skip ashore to the club and see if there’s any letters for me. I’m expecting a business letter from N’ York about a patent I’ve got an interest in.”
“Right,” said George.
The galley of the Wear Jack was well fitted up. Jake had done his cooking there and had left half a can of kerosene behind him. Hank had got eggs and a great chunk of bacon from somewhere out of the blue, and there was the remains of last night’s German sausage. In a few minutes the frying pan was shouting over a Primus stove and Hank, in his shirt sleeves, was directing George. There was a let-down table in the galley and plates and knives and forks in a locker.
“I’ve overhauled the crockery and table and bed linen,” said Hank. “Did it last night. There’s enough on board for a family—pass me your plate. We’ll have a Chink for cook.”
“How about the crew?”
“Time enough about them—maybe we’ll have Chinks.”