It was a peculiarity with Mr Seth Allport, the first mate of the Susan Jane, that when he spoke on medical topics and subjects, which formed the only real education he had received, his mode of speech was refined and almost polished; whereas, his usual language when engaged in seafaring matters—his present vocation—was vernacular in the extreme, smacking more of Vermont than it did of Harvard and college training.
“I’m certain my diagnosis is correct,” he said again to Mr Rawlings—after seeing the lad clothed in a flannel shirt and thick pair of trousers of the skipper’s, into whose cot he was then carefully placed, and wrapped up, the little fellow closing his eyes at once and sinking into a sound sleep—“and when he wakes up he’ll be all right, and be able to tell us all about himself.”
“I hope you may be right,” Mr Rawlings said, doubtfully. “Sleep may do much for him; at any rate, I will remain in the cabin to watch him for a while.”
So saying, he took his seat by the boy, while the mate proceeded to go on deck and rejoin the skipper, and the steward went to work to prepare breakfast.
The wind had now got well abeam of the Susan Jane and lessened considerably, although still blowing steady from the southwards and eastwards; and the sea being also somewhat calmer, the good ship was able to spread more sail, shaking the reefs out of her topsails and mainsail, while her courses were dropped, and the flying-jib and foresail set to drive her on her way across the Atlantic.
“I guess picking up that boy brought us luck, Seth!” said the skipper, rubbing his hands gleefully as the mate came to his side and joined in the quick quarter-deck he was taking, varied by an occasional look aloft to see that everything was drawing fair. “I think we might set the topgallants now, eh?”
“You’re not a slow one at piling on the canvas, I reckon!” answered the other with a laugh. “No sooner out of one gale than you want to get into another. Look at those clouds there ahead, Cap’en,” pointing to a dark streak that crossed the horizon low down right in front of the vessel. “I guess we aren’t out of it yet!”
“Waal, if we’ve got to have another blow,” replied the skipper, “we’d better make some use of the wind we have, specially as it looks like chopping round. What is she going now?” he asked of the quartermaster or boatswain, one individual performing both functions in the Yankee craft.
“Close on nine knots, Cap’en,” answered the man, who had just hove the log over the stern, and now stood, minute-glass in hand, calculating the result.
“Nine knots with this breeze? That will never do. Away aloft there, and shake out the topgallant sails! Now, men, stir yourselves in proper man-o’-war’s fashion; and let us see it done in ship-shape style! That’s your sort, men. Johnson shall shell out some grog presently to splice the main brace.”—He continued aloud, as the hands came down the ratlins again without losing time, after lowering the sails,—“Now, hoist away at the halliards. Cheerily, men! cheerily ho! The Boston girls have got hold of our tow-rope; up with the sticks with a will!”