“She’s not clipper built,” answered the mate; “they make that sort o’ ship by the mile and sell her by the fathom,—cuttin’ off from the piece just what is required. It don’t take long to plaster up the ends and stick a mast or two into ’em.”
“It’s in luck she is to git into the Downs before the gale breaks, and it’s to be hoped she has good ground-tackle,” said Jerry.
The mate hoped so too in a careless way, and, remarking that he would go and see that all was made snug, went forward.
At that moment there came up the fore-hatch a yell, as if from the throat of a North American savage. It terminated in the couplet, tunefully sung—
“Oh my! oh my!
O mammy, don’t you let the baby cry!”
Jack Shales, following his voice, immediately after came on deck.
“Have ’ee got that work-box done?” asked Jerry as his mate joined him.
“Not quite done yet, boy, but I’ll get it finished after the lights are up. Duty first, pleasure afterwards, you know.”
“Come now, Jack, confess that you’re makin’ it for a pretty girl.”
“Well, so I am, but it ain’t for my own pretty girl. It’s for that sweet little Nora Jones, who came lately to live in Ramsgate. You see I know she’s goin’ to be spliced to Jim Welton, and as Jim is a good sort of fellow, I want to make this little gift to his future bride.”