Sometimes all three of us used to be sent aloft to furl the royals, which are the highest sails on the masts.
One evening there was the cry of “All hands shorten sail,” which means all the sailors are to help take in the sails. Each man has his proper post, so that all know where to go. We three boys ran up the rigging, up we went in the gloom of coming night, the wind whistling, the sea roaring, the ship pitching. We had rope ladders, shrouds they are called, to help us for most of the way. We could just make out the men hanging on the yards below as we lay out on our yard. As Bill was a strong chap we soon had the sail rolled up and ready to send on deck. Toby and I had done our work, when Bill, who was clinging round the mast, caught hold of us both.
“Now, lads, I’m going to have my revenge. You promise never to chaff me again, or I’ll let you both drop down on deck, or into the sea, may be. In either case you’ll be killed, and no one will know it.”
His voice did not sound as if he was in joke.
“Which is to go first,” I asked.
“You’ll let us say our prayers, Bill,” said Toby, who always had a word to say.
“Will you chaff me?” cried Bill, in a fierce voice.
“Of course we will—only let us go,” said Toby.
Bill thought that Toby meant that he would not chaff him, for he let us both go, and we lost no time in slipping down the rigging.
This was the beginning of a storm, the first I had been in.