"A queer craft."
"Werry," replied Tom. "Don't answer the helm at all."
"Any grog on board?" demanded the sailor.
"Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage."
"Shiver my timbers!—no grog!" exclaimed the other; "why—you'll founder. If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour. Heave to—and let's drink success to the voyage."
"With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom—larboard."
"Aye, aye—larboard it is."
"Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl."
Tom tugged away, and soon "brought up" at the door of a wine-vaults.
"Let go the anchor," exclaimed his messmate—"that's it—coil up."