"Well, what, I'd like to know?"

"My shell chain--so there! You've tried and tried to get it away, and
you never could!" at which comforting remembrance she broke into a
laugh, which was so infectious even Morton had to smile.

But he turned from her with a disdainful gesture, only to meet Sara's
anxious, questioning eyes.

"Well, I've shipped," he answered doggedly, "that's what!"

"Morton!" With the word all the strength seemed to go out of her, and
she dropped weakly into a chair.

"Who with?" she asked sternly, for once forgetting even grammatical
rules in her intense dismay.

"With Uncle Jabez Wanamead; he's going out in a week or two, and needs a
boy."

"Morton, you can't go!" a determined look settling over her white face.
"It's a rough, dreadful life! Old Jabez drinks like a fish, and you'll
have to mix his grog a dozen times a day; then you'll have all the dirty
work to do, day and night, and be sent aloft where a cat couldn't cling,
with the boat pitching like a sturgeon, and, as likely as not, be thrown
to the deck with a broken arm, if you're not killed outright. And when
all's said and done, you'll never be anything--_any_thing but a
fisherman!"

"What else was pa?" stoutly. "Anybody'd think you was ashamed of him!"