“Wisht I’d never come in it,” the first hand sighed.
Their words were in whispers.
“I ’low,” said the second hand, with a scared glance about, “that the ol’ man will––will do it––the morrow.”
The three averted their eyes––each from the other’s.
“I ’low,” the cook gasped.
Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: “’Twill blow half a gale the morrow.”
“Ay,” said the skipper, uneasily; “an’ there’s like t’ be more than half a gale by the glass.”
“There’ll be few craft out o’ harbour.”
“Few craft, Tommy,” said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red 252 beard. “I’m not likin’ t’ take the Black Eagle t’ sea.”
“’Tis like there’ll be fog,” the clerk continued.