A number of the curious lingered about the SPRITE. Marsh and Orde were in consultation over the smashed stern, and did not look as though they cared to be disturbed. Harvey leaned out his little square door.
“Don' know nuffin 'bout it,” said he, “'ceptin' she done rolled 'way over 'bout foh times. Yass she did, suh! I know. I felt her doin' it.”
“No,” he answered a query. “I wasn't what you-all would call scairt, that is, not really SCAIRT—jess a little ne'vous. All I had to do was to feed her slabs and listen foh my bell. You see, Cap'n Ma'sh, he was in cha'ge.”
“No, sir,” Captain Marsh was saying emphatically to his employer. “I can't figure it out except on one thing. You see it's stove from UNDERNEATH. A sea would have smashed it from above.”
“Perhaps you grounded in between seas out there,” suggested Orde.
Marsh smiled grimly.
“I reckon I'd have known it,” said he. “No, sir! It sounds wild, but it's the only possible guess. That last sea must've lifted us bodily right over the corner of the pier.”
“Well—maybe,” assented Orde doubtfully.
“Sure thing,” repeated Marsh with conviction.
“Well, you'd better not tell 'em so unless you want to rank in with Old Man Ananias,” ended Orde. “It was a good job. Pretty dusty out there, wasn't it?”