"Now I'll learn you something Long Jack can't," shouted Tom Platt,
as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead
hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of
mutton tallow, and went forward. "I'll learn you how to fly the
Blue Pigeon. Shooo!"

Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner's way,
while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey),
let down the jib in a lump on the boom. The lead sung a deep
droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round.

"Go ahead, man," said Long Jack, impatiently. "We're not drawin'
twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog. There's no trick to ut."

"Don't be jealous, Galway." The released lead plopped into the sea
far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward.

"Soundin' is a trick, though," said Dan, "when your dipsey lead's
all the eye you're like to hev for a week. What d'you make it,
dad?"

Disko's face relaxed. His skill and honour were involved in the
march he had stolen on the rest of the fleet, and he had his
reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold.
"Sixty, mebbe - ef I'm any judge," he replied, with a glance at
the tiny compass in the window of the house.

"Sixty," sung out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils.