The old boatswain's mate followed his remarks with sundry winks, nods and contortions of his face which Frank could not understand, but which no doubt meant a good deal.
Frank descended to the deck and went through the rest of his duties like one in a dream. He had told his friends on board the Stranger that, had he been in the deserter's place, he would not have been restrained, by any fear of falling into the clutches of the law, from joining with his companions and taking the vessel out of the control of her officers. Now he was placed in a similar situation, and had only to "sing out" to make himself monarch of all he surveyed. Eight sturdy, determined men stood ready to obey his orders—a sufficient number to overpower the captain and his two tyrannical mates before they could think twice. Lucas did not have time to tell him who his friends were, but Frank believed that he could pick them all out. He had wondered at the respect which the foremast hands had shown him ever since his advent among them, and rightly attributed it to the influence of Lucas and Barton. Frank wondered if the third mate, Mr. Gale, was one of them. That officer always treated him with the utmost consideration, and once, while he was serving Frank with some clothing from the slop-chest, he so far forgot himself as to address him as "sir." He noticed the mistake as soon as he made it, but he did not recall the word. The old boatswain's mate and coxswain were indeed resolved to bring him out of his troubles with flying colors. They meant to promote him rapidly. Did anybody ever hear of a person creeping in at the hawsehole, and working his way into the captain's berth in three weeks? Frank laughed at the idea.
"I'm a nice specimen to be put in command of a ship," he thought. "I hardly know the topsail halliards from the jib downhaul. But I feel better than I did an hour ago. If my presence here really acts as a restraint upon the captain, I am glad of it. As long as that state of affairs continues he and his officers are secure in their positions; but now that I have the power to prevent it, no one shall be triced up by the wrists with a fifty-pound weight at his feet, or beaten as unmercifully as that man was beaten the other day."
Frank carried a light heart from that day forward, and often wondered, when he saw the captain in one of his angry, swearing moods, what that gentleman would think if he knew that he was treading on a mine that was liable to be exploded at any moment. He did not have a chance to talk to Lucas again, but the sailor looked whole volumes at him every time they met, and Frank thought the old fellow meant to reproach him because he did not "sing out."
Frank by this time began to feel and look like a sailor. He had discarded his black suit and drawn a full seaman's rig from the slop-chest—red shirts, coarse trowsers, woollen stockings, heavy boots and tarpaulin. His hands were becoming hardened, so that he could haul on the ropes or take a three hours' pull about the ship, without setting his palms on fire as he had done at first. There was one thing he could not bring himself to do, and that was to go barefooted, like the rest of the crew. There was something too slovenly about that to suit Frank, who, during his experience on ship-board, had always been accustomed to see men neatly and completely dressed.
Although Captain Barclay was in a great hurry, he did not neglect to keep himself and crew in readiness to seize upon the first opportunity that was presented for adding to his stock of oil in the hold. The boats were always ready for lowering, the mast-head had been manned for two weeks; and Frank took his turn with the rest. He did his duty faithfully while acting as lookout, hoping to be the first to discover a whale. He wanted to see one; but when it came to getting into a small boat and pulling out to attack him—well, Frank wasn't so anxious for that. He drew a long breath and his heart would beat a little faster than usual whenever he thought of it. He had heard many thrilling stories related during the night-watches, and had come to the conclusion that a sperm whale was made to be looked at from a distance and not to be approached in a small boat.
One bright day Frank was sitting on the fore-royal yard, his back braced against the shroud-stay, one hand grasping the halliards and his feet swinging in the air a hundred feet above the deck. There was not a sail in sight—nothing but the ocean beneath and the blue sky above. The old boatswain's mate, who now held the position of boat-steerer, was sitting on the main-royal yard behind him, and both were keeping a bright lookout for whales. A prize of a pair of boots had been offered to the first man who raised a whale, and that to a sailor who, out of small wages, has to pay high prices for everything he draws from the slop-chest, is an object worth working for. Frank did not care for the boots—he hoped to be safely off the Tycoon long before the pair he then had on was worn out—but he did care for the honor of discovering the first spout, so he kept his eyes roaming everywhere. But half his watch had expired and he had seen nothing yet.
"Hem! hem!" said a voice behind and above him.
Frank looked around, and saw the old boatswain's mate winking and nodding at him as he always did both before and after making any confidential communication. More than that, he was holding his clenched hand against his breast, and pointing with his thumb out over the water. His meaning flashed upon Frank in an instant. His eyes scanned almost every inch of the watery waste that lay between him and the horizon, but he could see nothing that he thought looked as a spout ought to look.
"Sing out, sir!" whispered the old sailor, excitedly. "There's grease!"