“Drusilla is getting her back up some more,” commented the second mate, starting for the storeroom. “I don't blame her much. This is no place for an old lady, out here to-night.” He ordered Mayo to accompany him.
In a few moments they reported to the captain, the mate carrying the two-headed maul and the young man bearing an armful of wedges.
Captain Downs bestowed on Mayo about the same attention he would have allowed to a galley cockroach. He pointed to a gap in the rail.
“There—drive one in there,” he told the mate. “Let that nigger hold the wedge.” There was rancor in his voice—baleful hostility shone in his snapping eyes; no captain tolerates disobedience at sea, and Mayo had disregarded all discipline in the cabin.
The young man kneeled and performed the service and followed the party dutifully when they moved on to the next gap.
The pitching schooner groaned and grunted and squalled in all her fabric.
Every angle joint was working—yawing open and closing with dull grindings as the vessel rolled and plunged.
“By goofer, she's gritting her teeth in good shape!” commented the first mate.
“She ought to have been stiffened a year ago, when she first began to loosen and work!” declared Captain Downs. His anxiety stirred both his temper and his tongue. “I was willing to have my sixteenth into her assessed for repairs, but a stockholder don't have to go to sea! I wish I had an excursion party of owners aboard here now.”
“When these old critters once get loose enough to play they rattle to pieces mighty fast,” said the mate. “But this is nothing specially bad.”