She’ll run pell-mell
With every stitch a-drawing;
O’er waters smooth,
And waters rough,
The seas her forefoot spurning.”
He sang light-heartedly as he went on deck.
Soon Arthur heard the cheep, cheep of the halliard blocks as the mainsail was hoisted, then the metallic clink of the ratchet on the capstan; Frank’s cry, “She’s broke!” was followed by the swift whirr of the jib halliards hauled taut and the creak of the blocks as the mainsail was sheeted home. Then the slap, slap of the little waves against the yacht’s sides as she heeled to the fresh breeze told Arthur that they were under way again.
“There’s no use talking, this beats farming,” Arthur said to himself. “But, Je-rusalem, we had it hard on the Old Mississippi. I don’t hanker for any more of that.”
After getting under way, the order was: “All hands and the cook prepare meat.” There was a large amount of turtle meat left that was too valuable to be wasted. The flesh was cut up into strips, thoroughly sprinkled with salt, and hung up in the rigging, where the sun shone full upon it, to dry. It was not a very appetizing job, nor did the yacht herself present a very attractive appearance, but the product turned out all right. Turtle meat and turtle eggs were on the bill of fare for some time.
Kenneth made the unsavory remark that if the meat-preserving experiment proved a failure, the “Gazelle” would be about as fragrant as a sponge-fishing boat.