"It doesn't move," said the little man, panting. "It doesn't move
at all, and indeed I tried everything."
"What's all this hurrah's-nest for'ard?" said Dan, pointing to a
wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by
the hand of inexperience.

"Oh, that," said Penn, proudly, "is a Spanish windlass. Mr.
Salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn't move her."

Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or
twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once.

"Haul up, Penn," he said, laughing, "er she 'll git stuck again."

They left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor
with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely.

"Oh, say, while I think of it, Harve," said Dan, when they were
out of ear-shot, "Penn ain't quite all caulked. He ain't nowise
dangerous, but his mind's give out. See?"

"Is that so, or is it one of your father's judgments?" Harvey
asked, as he bent to his oars. He felt he was learning to handle
them more easily.

"Dad ain't mistook this time. Penn's a sure'nuff loony. No, he
ain't thet, exactly, so much ez a harmless ijjit. It was this way
(you're rowin' quite so, Harve), an' I tell you 'cause it's right
you orter know. He was a Moravian preacher once. Jacob Boller wuz
his name, dad told me, an' he lived with his wife an' four