“Yes,” said Cammock. “He knows a lot for his age. A smart young man, Mr. Iles, as you say, mister. He fiddles pretty, too.”
“I don’t hold with fiddling in a man,” said Mr. Cottrill. “It’s not natural. But it keeps the mind employed, they say.”
“Yes,” said Cammock, “and so does making up tunes. Did you never make up tunes, when you was a boy, mister, walking the poop?”
“I come in like a head sea,” said Mr. Cottrill. “The only times I walked the poop was to relieve the helm, or to take in the mizen.”
“Well. And ain’t you glad?” said Cammock. “It’s the only way to learn.”
“It is that, sir,” said Cottrill. “I guess, sir,” he added, “if this wind holds, we’ll be out of sight of land by dawn.”
The boy reported eight bells.
“Make it,” said Cottrill.
The boy struck the bell eight times.
“You boy,” said Cammock, “when you walk the lee poop at night, you’ll not go clump, clump, the way you done last night. There’s a lady in the cabin. Let me see what boots you’re wearing. I thought so. They’re the kind of boots would wear a hole in a wall. Hold up them soles, and give us the end of the main-brace there. There, my son. I give you the end this time. You wear them boots after dark again, and you’ll get the bight, higher up.”