At last she cleared decks, hoisted her flag,--as is the right of the first boat off the Banks,--up-anchored, and began to move.
Disko pretended that he wished to accomodate folk who had not sent in their mail, and so worked her gracefully in and out among the schooners.

In reality, that was his little triumphant procession, and for the fifth year running it showed what kind of mariner he was.

Dan's accordion and Tom Platt's fiddle supplied the music of the magic verse you must not sing till all the salt is wet: "Hih! Yih! Yoho! Send your letters raound! All our salt is wetted, an' the anchor's off the graound! Bend, oh, bend your mains'l, we're back to Yankeeland-- With fifteen hunder' quintal, An' fifteen hunder' quintal, 'Teen hunder' toppin' quintal, 'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand." The last letters pitched on deck wrapped round pieces of coal, and the Gloucester men shouted messages to their wives and womenfolks and owners, while the _We're Here_ finished the musical ride through the Fleet, her headsails quivering like a man's hand when he raises it to say good-by.
Harvey very soon discovered that the _We're Here_, with her riding-sail, strolling from berth to berth, and the _We're Here_ headed west by south under home canvas, were two very different boats.

There was a bite and kick to the wheel even in "boy's" weather; he could feel the dead weight in the hold flung forward mightily across the surges, and the streaming line of bubbles overside made his eyes dizzy.
Disko kept them busy fiddling with the sails; and when those were flattened like a racing yacht's, Dan had to wait on the big topsail, which was put over by hand every time she went about.

In spare moments they pumped, for the packed fish dripped brine, which does not improve a cargo.