After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.
Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or “ferrying” the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the coper.
“Good luck to ’ee,” muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.
“It’s bad luck to you anyhow,” remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.
“Mind your own business, Lumpy, an’ none o’ your sauce, if you don’t want a rope’s-endin’,” retorted the man.
“Ain’t I just mindin’ my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook’s business?” returned the boy.
“I won’t go to her,” thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the coper, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.
“Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o’ the coper, as she’s so near at hand!” said the mate, coming aft at the moment.
“Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the coper altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I’m not a teetotaller, but if I’m to be killed at all, I’d rather be killed by good spirits than bad.”
“Right you are,” replied Jay, “but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and—”