id ye ever think how sweet 'twould be to sail wid a full crew o'
Salterses?" said Long Jack. "Ha'af in the furrer an' other ha'af in the
muck-heap, as Ca'houn did not say, an' makes out he's a fisherman!"

A little laugh went round at Salters's expense.

Disko held his tongue, and wrought over the log-book that he kept in a
hatchet-faced, square hand; this was the kind of thing that ran on,
page after soiled page:

"July 17. This day thick fog and few fish. Made berth to northward. So
ends this day.

"July 18. This day comes in with thick fog. Caught a few fish.

"July 19. This day comes in with light breeze from N.E. and fine
weather. Made a berth to eastward. Caught plenty fish.

"July 20. This, the Sabbath, comes in with fog and light winds. So ends
this day. Total fish caught this week, 3,478."

They never worked on Sundays, but shaved, and washed themselves if it
were fine, and Pennsylvania sang hymns. Once or twice he suggested
that, if it was not an impertinence, he thought he could preach a
little. Uncle Salters nearly jumped down his throat at the mere notion,
reminding him that he was not a preacher and mustn't think of such
things. "We'd hev him rememberin' Johns-town next," Salters explained,
"an' what would happen then?" so they compromised on his reading aloud
from a book called "Josephus." It was an old leather-bound volume,
smelling of a hundred voyages, very solid and very like the Bible, but
enlivened with accounts of battles and sieges; and they read it nearly
from cover to cover. Otherwise Penn was a silent little body. He would
not utter a word for three days on end sometimes, though he played
checkers, listened to the songs, and laughed at the stories. When they
tried to stir him up, he would answer: "I don't wish to seem
unneighbourly, but it is because I have nothing to say. My head feels
quite empty. I've almost forgotten my name." He would turn to Uncle
Salters with an expectant smile.

"Why, Pennsylvania Pratt," Salters would shout "You'll fergit me next!"

"No--never," Penn would say, shutting his lips firmly. "Pennsylvania
Pratt, of course," he would repeat over and over. Sometimes it was
Uncle Salters who forgot, and told him he was Haskins or Rich or
McVitty; but Penn was equally content--till next time.

He was always very tender with Harvey, whom he pitied both as a lost
child and as a lunatic; and when Salters saw that Penn liked the boy,
he relaxed, too. Salters was not an a