Hurry, Harve," said Dan.
He was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and Tom Platt.
"These are cod," said Disko.

"They ain't Damarskus figs, Tom Platt, nor yet silver bars.

I've told you that ever single time since we've sailed together." "A matter o' seven seasons," returned Tom Platt coolly.

"Good stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a wrong way o' stowin' ballast even.

If you'd ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into the--" "Hi!" With a yell from Manuel the work began again, and never stopped till the pen was empty.