er I
stick my boat-huk into T-wharf again, I'll show the saints fwhat manner
o' craft they saved me out av.' Now, I'm here, as ye can well see, an'
the model of the dhirty ould Kathleen, that took me a month to make, I
gave ut to the priest, an' he hung ut up forninst the altar. There's
more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than
any candle. Ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good
saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful."

"D'you believe that, Irish?" said Tom Platt, turning on his elbow.

"Would I do ut if I did not, Ohio?"

"Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model o' the old Ohio, and she's to
Calem museum now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I guess Enoch he never
done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way I take it is--"

There were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that
fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one
proves anything at the end, had not Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme:

"Up jumped the mackerel with his stripe'd back.
Reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack;
_For_ it's windy weather--"

Here Long Jack joined in:

"_And_ it's blowy weather;
_When_ the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!"

Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Platt, holding the accordion
low in the bunk:

"Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head,
Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead;
_For_ it's windy weather," etc.

Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but
sang louder:

"Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground.
Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!"

Tom Platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the foc'sle and caught
Dan's uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the boy ever
since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would
make him angry as he heaved the lead.

"Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, returning the gift with precision.
"Ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain't goin' to lie
here all day an' listen to you an' Long Jack arguin' 'baout candles.
Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I'll learn Harve here the tune!"

Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle.
Manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew
out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a
machette.

"'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. "A reg'lar
Bost