"Yes, and then we'll run the risk of having a mast taken out," grumbled Hobson, who could endure almost anything but standing still. "Give me a good steady breeze every trip."
The men hung around here and there, or lay in the coolest spots they could find, dozing or sleeping. The only sound that broke the stillness was the voice of Jeff, as he prepared meals and sang his plantation melodies. He had one song in particular, relating the mishaps of "My Gal Susannah!" which he seemed to be never weary of repeating. The darky was the only one satisfied to let the calm take care of itself.
Olan Oleson had kept his distance, and it really began to look as though the lesson Striker had given the fellow had done some good. But the burly Norwegian had not forgotten, for such was not his nature. Secretly he was plotting to strike both Larry and his Yankee friend a most dastardly blow.
Striker sat in front of the forecastle, his legs under him, in the fashion of a tailor. He had a score of bits of wood about him, and was engaged in whittling out the model of a boat with his jack-knife. Not far away rested Larry, a big book on
