“Ay; ’tis like there’ll be a bit o’ fog.”
Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened.
Tommy Bull laughed.
“Skipper,” said he, “do you go ashore an’ say you’ll take the Black Eagle t’ sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul.”
The skipper looked up in bewilderment.
“Orders,” the clerk explained, grinning. “Tell ’em you’ve been wigged lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin’ in harbour.”
Skipper George laughed in his turn.
“For’ard, there!” the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin. “One o’ you t’ take the skipper ashore!”
Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers of 253 these craft, and with the idle folk ashore, Skipper George foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, ’twas dirty weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the Black Eagle in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was sick an’ tired o’ bein’ wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin’ in harbour. No more wiggin’ for him. No, sir! He’d take the Black Eagle t’ sea in the mornin’? Let it blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul, ’twould be up anchor an’ t’ sea for the Black Eagle at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her go t’ wreck. Orders was orders. If the Black Eagle happened t’ be picked up by a rock in the fog ’twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong’s business to explain it. As for Skipper George, no man would be able t’ tell him again that he was afraid t’ take his schooner t’ sea. An’ orders was orders, sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders.
“I’m not likin’ the job o’ takin’ my schooner t’ sea in wind an’ fog,” Skipper George concluded, with a great assumption of indignant courage; “but when I’m told t’ drive her, I’ll drive, an’ let the owner take the consequences.”