Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

teaching, as he said, ‘things … ivry man must know, blind, dhrunk, or asleep.’

      The lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place for everything and anything except a man. Forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the foc’sle stove-pipe, and the gurry-butts by the foc’sle hatch to hold the fish-livers. Aft of these the foreboom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. Then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things lengthwise, to duck and dodge under every time.

      Tom Platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old Ohio.

      ‘Niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, Innocince. Tom Platt, this bally-hoo’s not the Ohio, an’ you’re mixing the bhoy bad.’

      ‘He’ll be ruined for life, beginnin’ on a fore-an’-after this way,’ Tom Platt pleaded. ‘Give him a chance to know a few leadin’ principles. Sailin’s an art, Harvey, as I’d show you if I had ye in the foretop o’ the———’

      ‘I know ut. Ye’d talk him dead an’ cowld. Silince, Tom Platt! Now, after all I’ve said, how’d you reef the foresail, Harve? Take your time answerin’.’

      ‘Haul that in,’ said Harvey, pointing to leeward.

      ‘Fwhat? The North Atlantuc?’

      ‘No, the boom. Then run that rope you showed me back there——’

      ‘That’s no way,’ Tom Platt burst in.

      ‘Quiet! He’s larnin’, an’ has not the names good yet. Go on, Harve.’

      ‘Oh, it’s the reef-pennant. I’d hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down——’

      ‘Lower the sail, child! Lower!’ said Tom Platt, in a professional agony.

      ‘Lower the throat and peak halyards,’ Harvey went on. Those names stuck in his head.

      ‘Lay your hand on thim,’ said Long Jack.

      Harvey obeyed. ‘Lower till that rope-loop—on the after-leach—kris—no, it’s cringle—till the cringle was down on the boom. Then I’d tie her up the way you said, and then I’d hoist up the peak and throat halyards again.’

      ‘You’ve forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye’ll larn. There’s good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else ’twould be overboard. D’ye follow me? ’Tis dollars an’ cents I’m puttin’ into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye’ve filled out ye can ship from Boston to Cuba an’ tell thim Long Jack larned you. Now I’ll chase ye around a piece, callin’ the ropes, an’ you’ll lay your hand on thim as I call.’

      He began, and Harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. A rope’s end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him.

      ‘When you own a boat,’ said Tom Platt, with severe eyes, ‘you can walk. Till then, take all orders at the run. Once more—to make sure!’

      Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. Now, he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. He looked at the other men, and saw that even Dan did not smile. It was evidently all in the day’s work, though it hurt abominably. So he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. The same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, Penn, would stand the least nonsense. One learns a great deal from a mere tone. Long Jack called over half a dozen more ropes, and Harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb tide, one eye on Tom Platt.

      ‘Ver’ good. Ver’ good done,’ said Manuel. ‘After supper I show you a little schooner I make, with all her ropes. So we shall learn.’

      ‘Fust-class fer—a passenger,’ said Dan. ‘Dad he’s jest allowed you’ll be wuth your salt maybe ’fore you’re draownded. Thet’s a heap fer dad. I’ll learn you more our next watch together.’

      ‘Taller!’ grunted Disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. There was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping one to the other.

      ‘Now I’ll learn you something Long Jack can’t,’ shouted Tom Platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. ‘I’ll learn you how to fly the Blue Pigeon. Shooo!’

      Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner’s way, while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. The lead sang a deep droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round.

      ‘Go ahead, man,’ said Long Jack impatiently. ‘We’re not drawin’ twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog. There’s no trick to ut.’

      ‘Don’t be jealous, Galway.’ The released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward.

      ‘Soundin’ is a trick, though,’ said Dan, ‘when your dipsey lead’s all the eye you’re like to hev for a week. What d’you make it, dad?’

      Disko’s face relaxed. His skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold. ‘Sixty, mebbe—ef I’m any judge,’ he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house.

      ‘Sixty,’ sang out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils.

      The schooner gathered way once more. ‘Heave!’ said Disko, after a quarter of an hour.

      ‘What d’you make it?’ Dan whispered, and he looked at Harvey proudly. But Harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then.

      ‘Fifty!’ said the father. ‘I mistrust we’re right over the nick o’ Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty.’

      ‘Fifty!’ roared Tom Platt. They could scarcely see him through the fog. ‘She’s bust within a yard—like the shells at Fort Maçon.’

      ‘Bait up, Harve,’ said Dan, diving for a line on the reel.

      The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly. The men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing.

      ‘Heugh!’ Dan’s lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. ‘Now haow in thunder did dad know? Help us here, Harve. It’s a big un. Poke-hooked, too.’ They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. He had taken the bait right into his stomach.

      ‘Why, he’s all covered with little crabs,’ cried Harvey, turning him over.

      ‘By the great hook-block, they’re lousy already,’ said Long Jack. ‘Disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel.’

      Splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks.

      ‘Are they good to eat?’ Harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod.

      ‘Sure. When they’re lousy it’s a sign they’ve all been herdin’ together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they’re hungry. Never mind how the bait sets. They’ll bite on the bare hook.’

      ‘Say, this is great!’ Harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping