“Oh, hang it, Rockafellar!” cried Poole, “you’re not at school now, little boy! Who’s to answer such questions? Let’s down on deck, or the mate’ll be singing out.”
As I descended the shrouds I saw some sailors at work in the waist, grinning very hard.
“Seen it, sir?” bawled one of them.
“Yes,” said I.
“No chance, I hope,” he sung out, “of its fouling our mast-heads, is there, sir? Otherwise it’ll sweep every spar overboard.”
“No, it looks to be too high up in the air to hurt us,” I answered, and trudged aft, followed by a half-smothered chorus of laughter.
The mate stood at the head of the poop ladder.
“Where have you been, sir?” he exclaimed.
“Up in the foretop, sir,” I answered.
“And what job carried you there, young gentleman?”