himself, and Long Jack leaned over the bulwarks. The cook
appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of
backbones and heads, and retreated.

"Blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said Long Jack,
smacking his lips.

"Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved
splitter's weapon.

"Look by your foot, Harve," cried Dan, below.

Harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch
combing. He dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones.

"Water!" said Disko Troop.

"Scuttle-butt's for'ard, an' the dipper's alongside. Hurry,
Harve," said Dan.

He was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water
which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and Tom
Platt.

"These are cod," said Disko. "They ain't Damarskus figs, Tom
Platt, nor yet silver bars. I've told you that every single time
sence we've sailed together."

"A matter o' seven seasons," returned Tom Platt, coolly. "Good
stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a