"Who?"
"The painter."
"He's not here; and if he was, I shouldn't like to cast him off here, where the water is so dirty; I would rather wait till we come to a cleaner place," I replied.
"That rope by which the boat is fastened to the wharf is called a painter," added the skipper.
"O, is it?" I replied, unfastening the rope at the shore end, and pulling it on board.
"That's it. You will be as salt as a boiled lobster one of these days, Phil."
I thanked him for the compliment, as I supposed it to be, though I had not the least idea what a lobster was. The skipper took the helm, and the boat began to move.
"Haul in that sheet, Phil," said he, quietly.
I rushed for the cabin, where I had seen two beds very neatly made up in the berths.
"Where are you going?"