“Why, yes; that’s a fact,” admitted the captain. “We’re jest like a chip, floatin’ whichever way the wind blows. But you never heard of a chip sinkin’, did you?”
“N—no,” was the doubting reply.
“What do you mean by saying there’s not a clear sea?” asked young Alfonso.
“Study yer jogerfy,” said my father gruffly. “You’ll find the South Seas specked with islands everywheres. I don’t jest know where we are at this minute, but I’ll gamble there’s islands not far away.”
“Oh. Then if the ship happens to break up we can easily get to land, and perhaps save the cargo,” remarked Little Jim complacently.
My father stared at him, muttered some inaudible remark and rose to return to the deck.
“Must you go?” I asked.
“It’s my place, Sam,” said he.
“But you’ll be careful?” I never said such a thing to him before, but I had poor Dick and Billy Burke in my mind—cautious fellows, both of them—and my father had a wooden leg.
“I’ll lash myself to the riggin’ when I get to it,” he returned, and disappeared up the companionway.