"Feelin' better?" said the boy, with a grin. "Hev some coffee?" He
brought a tin cup full, and sweetened it with molasses.

"Is n't there milk?" said Harvey, looking round the dark double
tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there.

"Well, no," said the boy. "Ner there ain't likely to be till
'baout mid-September. 'Tain't bad coffee. I made it."

Harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of
pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously.

"I've dried your clothes. Guess they've shrunk some," said the
boy. "They ain't our style much - none of 'em. Twist round an' see
ef you're hurt any."

Harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report
any injuries.

"That's good," the boy said heartily. "Fix yerself an' go on deck.
Dad wants to see you. I'm his son, - Dan, they call me, - an' I'm
cook's helper an' everything else aboard that's too dirty for the
men. There ain't no boy here 'cep' me sence Otto went overboard -
an' he was only a Dutchy, an' twenty year old at that. How'd you
come to fall off in a dead flat ca'am?"

"'Twasn't a calm," said Harvey, sulkily. "It was a gale, and I was
seasick. Guess I must have rolled over the rail."