Sorry I can't accommodate you with red-hot shot, Tom Platt; but I guess we'll come aout all right on wind 'fore we see Eastern Point." There was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the foc'sle.

The rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house--all save Uncle Salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands.
"Guess she'd carry stays'l," said Disko, rolling one eye at his brother.
"Guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit.

What's the sense o' wastin' canvas ?" the farmer-sailor replied.
The wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in Disko's hands.

A few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote Uncle Salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot.

He rose sputtering, and went forward only to catch another.
"See Dad chase him all around the deck," said Dan.