not three but thirteen bells! "Clang, clang, clang," rang the brazen notes over the water, startling the wild sea fowl into curious, circling flight around the topmasts, and frightening the long-legged herons from their fishing by the water's edge.
Disturbed at this unseaworthy distortion of time, the hands and Cap'n Harve came tumbling on deck, half-dressed, like firemen after an alarm, only reversing the direction of their flight.
"Here, here, what's up—somebody three sheets in the wind, striking thirteen bells?" the skipper's voice boomed out.
"What's the matter with you, Uncle Harve, don't you know"
"To be sure, my dear, I ought to be ashamed of myself."
"But hurry, Uncle Harve, hurry, tell 'em to lower the boat!"
He tried to restrain her.
"Better get a bite of breakfast first. Cook's coming from the galley now."
But she stamped her foot on deck, again a little viciously for Sally. "No, siree! Not a mouthful till we go ashore."
It was nothing but rank mutiny. Still there are times when even a self-respecting skipper may surrender. A boat's crew manned the oars, the boat dropped from the davits to the water and sped towards shore, each of Sally's one hundred and nine pounds as tense as a coxswain's in a New London race.
