“Oh, I don't mean nothin', Cap'n; but seein' there ain't no particular hurry—”
“No hurry! Why, man, I've got to lay alongside the Lakeville pier by Wednesday night, or break something. What's the matter with you, anyhow? Lost your nerve?”
“No, I ain't lost my nerve. And you ain't got no call to talk that way to me, Dick Smiley.”
“Here, here, Pete, none of that. We're going to pull out in just about two minutes. If you aren't good for it, I 'll wait long enough to tumble your slops ashore. Put your mind on it now—are you coming or not?”
“Oh, I'm cornin', Cap'n, of course, but—”
“Shut up, then.”
The idlers on the wharf had not heard what was said, but they saw Roche change color and duck below for another pull at his flask.
The tug swung out into the stream; the Merry Anne fell slowly away from the wharf.
“Call up those loafers, Pete,” shouted Smiley, as he rested his hands on the wheel. The two sailors, roused by a shake and an oath, scrambled drowsily upon the deck with red eyes and unsettled nerves, and were set to work raising the jib and double-reefing foresail and mainsail. Captain Peters sounded three blasts for the first bridge, and headed down-stream.
Passing on through the narrow draws of the bridges and between the buildings that lined the river, the Merry Anne drew near to the long piers that formed the entrance to the channel. And Roche, standing with flushed face by the foremast, looked out over the piers at the angry lake, now a lead-gray color, here streaked with foam, there half obscured by the driving squalls. His eyes followed the track of one squall after another as they tore their way at right angles to the surf.