"I'm waitin' on the weather," he added.

"Ye'll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there's no sign I can
see," said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon.

And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing-down, the Bank
fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. It
drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the
colourless water. The men stopped dressing-down without a word.
Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the windlass-brakes into their
sockets, and began to heave up the anchor, the windlass jarring as
the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. Manuel and Tom Platt
gave a hand at the last. The anchor came up with a sob, and the
riding-sail bellied as Troop steadied her at the wheel. "Up jib
and foresail," said he.

"Slip 'em in the smother," shouted Long Jack, making fast the jib-
sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the
foresail; and the fore-boom creaked as the "We're Here" looked up
into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white.

"There's wind behind this fog," said Troop.

It was all wonderful beyond words to Harvey; and the most
wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional
grunt from Troop, ending with, "That's good, my son!"

"'Never seen anchor weighed before?" said Tom Platt, to Harvey
gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail.