The _Ghost_ was slipping through the water at no more than three miles an hour, and the sea was fairly calm.

But Mugridge had little stomach for a dip in it.

Possibly he had seen men towed before.
Besides, the water was frightfully cold, and his was anything but a rugged constitution.
As usual, the watches below and the hunters turned out for what promised sport.

Mugridge seemed to be in rabid fear of the water, and he exhibited a nimbleness and speed we did not dream he possessed.

Cornered in the right-angle of the poop and galley, he sprang like a cat to the top of the cabin and ran aft.