"One thing that has puzzled me is that all these schooners seem to come from Key West," Charley remarked, '"Of Key West' is lettered on the stern of every one of them."
"Key West used to be the headquarters for the sponging business in the old days," the captain explained. "They used to gather sponges different from what they do now. A schooner would take out about twenty small boats an' a crew of forty men. When she got to the sponge grounds, the small boats would scatter out around her, two men in each boat. One man would do the sculling and the other would lean over the bow with a water glass in one hand—a pail with a pane of glass for a bottom—and a long pole with a hook in the end in the other. When he spied a sponge on the bottom through the glass he'd have the other stop sculling and he would hook it up with his pole. It was slow, hard work, but they made money at it until the Greeks came with their expert divers. They could not compete with them so they either sold or leased their schooners to the Greeks and went out of business."
The old sailor's explanation was interrupted by a howl of "Oh, Golly!" from the cook' galley forward and Chris, dripping with water, bounded out of the open door of the little structure, and rushed aft.
"I want you to put dat cook in irons, Massa Captain," he cried. "He's done 'saulted his superior officer."
"What did he do to you," the captain asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"Throwed a hull pan of dirty, nasty dishwater obber me. I was jus' tellin' him how he had outer do, an' tryin' to show de ignorant man how to cook, when—slosh—he let fly dat big pan full all obber me."
The dirty water was streaming from the little negro's brilliant clothing and his face was streaked with purple from his cap.
The captain checked his desire to laugh.
"The cook did just right," he said, gravely. "You've got no business in his galley. A cook is always boss there. Even the Captain seldom interferes with him."
Chris seemed inclined to protest indignantly, but the old sailor continued.