“I can’t help that,” said Tom, looking up at the clouds with a most pitiful countenance.
“You must help it. What would you do if you were in the water, a mile and a half from the shore?”
“O, I don’t know. I’m sick.”
“You must work for your life, if you are sick,” said the fisher-boy.
Tom, however, made no reply, neither did he move from his position. Bob began to be discouraged. If the fear of losing his life would not induce the young trader to put forth some exertion, it was probable that nothing would. But there was one subject still untried, and at that moment it occurred to the fisher-boy.
“Captain—I mean Tom,” said he, “if we do capsize, what will become of your eggs, and butter, and your fine game chickens? You’ll have to look for your ten dollars profit at the bottom of the sea.”
“So I would!” exclaimed Tom, straightening himself up, all his sickness vanishing in an instant. “I can’t afford to lose those game chickens. They’re worth more than ten dollars to me. But, Bob, this is my last trip up the bay, I can tell you.”
The fisher-boy had succeeded in waking Tom up at last. The latter knew that not only his fine boat, but even his own life was in danger; but it was not until Bob reminded him of the loss he would sustain in his game chickens, in the event of the Mystery’s capsizing, that he got up, ready to lend assistance.
“Now, then,” said Bob, as the young trader took hold of the tiller, “hold her steady, and I’ll take in that gaff topsail.”
The topsail had formerly been arranged so that it could be spread or taken in from the deck; but this did not “look enough like a ship” to suit Tom, who, after considerable trouble, had made it as near as possible like the topsail of a schooner; so that when he wanted it taken in, some one had to go aloft to do it. It was sport for Tom to ascend the mast in fair weather, when the Mystery was made fast at her wharf; but he did not dare to attempt it at sea, in the face of a storm; so this duty devolved upon the fisher-boy, who went aloft, took in the sail, and threw it to the deck. Tom took more pride in his boat than in any thing else, and he always liked to see the canvas neatly stowed away; and had it been fair weather, he would have scolded Bob for not doing the topsail up properly. But an indistinct moaning sound, which came faintly to his ears, told him that the storm was rapidly approaching, and he was so terrified, and so anxious to reach the shore, that he hardly noticed the condition the sail was in. The fisher-boy then descended to the deck, and, in a few moments more, the flying-jib was securely stowed away, and a double reef taken in the mainsail. Then, after placing all the boxes, baskets, and pails under the thwarts, as much as possible out of the way, he again took his seat at the helm, which Tom readily gave up to him.