The shoveller sprang from the platform and began
clambering over the slippery, slimy rocks like a crab,
his red shirt marked with the white "X" of his
suspenders in relief against the blue water. When he
reached the outermost edge of the stone pile, where
the ten-ton blocks lay, he made a megaphone of his
fingers and repeated the captain's orders to the Susie
Ann.

Baxter listened with his hands cupped to his ears.

"Who says so?" came back the reply.

"Cap'n Joe."

"What fur?"

"Goin' to blow,--don't ye see it?"

Baxter stepped gingerly along the sloop's rail.
Obeying the order meant twenty-four hour's delay
in making sure of his wages,--perhaps a week, spring
weather being uncertain. He didn't "see no blow."
Besides, if there was one coming, it wasn't his
sloop or his stone. When he reached the foot
of the bowsprit Moon-face sent this answer over
the water:

"Let her blow and be d--! This sloop's chartered