“You’ve no voice in the matter,” replied Eugene. “It is just as the captain says; so consider yourself appointed, and give me your place. It’s irregular for an officer to stand a trick at the wheel, you know. That is the duty of us foremast hands.”
Of course this was all strategy on Perk’s part. The Club knew it, and so did Chase and Wilson; and that was the reason the former remonstrated. After thinking the matter over, however, he decided to act in Perk’s place. He told himself that there would be no responsibility attached to the office, for Walter would never leave the deck while that rough weather continued. The young captain regarded his yacht as the apple of his eye; and when he was willing to allow any one even the smallest share in the management of her, it was a sure sign that he liked him and had confidence in him. If Chase had never before been satisfied that the Club were in earnest in all they said, he was now, and so was Wilson.
CHAPTER V.
THE DESERTERS.
By the aid of the block and tackle which Eugene had rigged over the fore-hatchway, the provisions were lowered through the galley into the hold, where they were stowed away so snugly that they would not be thrown about by the pitching of the vessel. This done, the hatch that led into the hold was closed and fastened. Perk, remembering who had come through there a short time before, put down the hatch himself, stamping it into its place, and securing the bar with the padlock—the fore-hatch was closed and battened down, the block and tackle stowed away in their proper place, and things began to look ship-shape once more.
The foremast hands, as Eugene called himself and companions, who did not hold office, gathered in the standing room to converse; Walter and Chase planked the weather-side of the deck, the former linking his arm through that of his lieutenant, and talking and laughing with him as though they had always been fast friends; a fire was crackling away merrily in the galley stove; and Perk, divested of his coat, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, revealing arms as brown and muscular as Uncle Dick’s, was superintending the cooking of the “skouse” and “dough-boy,” and singing at the top of his voice, the words of an old but favorite song of the Clubs:
“The land of my home is flitting, flitting from my view;
The gale in the sail is setting, toils the merry crew.”