“Depend on it, the same account is kept of the day, Captain Daggett, in the great log-book above, whether a man is on or off soundings,” put in Stephen, who was privileged ever to deliver his sentiments on such subjects.  “The Lord is God on the sea, as on the land.”

There was a pause; for the solemn manner and undoubted sincerity of the speaker produced an impression on his companions, little given as they were to thinking deeply on things of that nature.  Then Roswell renewed the discourse, turning it on a matter that had been seriously uppermost in his mind for several days.

“I wish to converse with you, Captain Daggett, about our prospects and chances,” he said.  “My schooner is full, as you know.  We could do no more, if we stayed here another season.  You are about half-full, with a greatly diminished chance of filling up this summer.  Mr. Macy’s attack on the seals has put you back a month, at least, and every day we shall find the animals less easy to take.  The equinox is not very far off, and then, you know, we shall get less and less sun,—­so little, as to be of no great use to us.  We want day-light to get through the ice, and we shall have a long hundred leagues of it between us and clear water, even were we to get under way to-morrow.  Remember what a serious thing it would be, to get caught up here, in so high a latitude, after the sun has left us!”

“I understand you, Gardner,” answered the other, quietly, though his manner denoted a sort of compelled resignation, rather than any cordial acquiescence in that which he believed his brother master intended to propose.  “You’re master of your own vessel; and I dare say Deacon Pratt would be much rejoiced to see you coming in between Shelter Island and Oyster Pond.  I’m but a cripple, or I think the Vineyard craft wouldn’t be many days’ run astarn!”

Roswell was provoked; but his pride was touched also.  Biting his lip, he was silent for a moment, when he spoke very much to the point, but generously, and like a man.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Daggett,” said our hero, “good-fellowship is good-fellowship, and the flag is the flag.  It is the duty of all us Yankee seamen to stand by the stripes; and I hope I’m as ready as another to do what I ought to do, in such a matter; but my owner is a close calculator, and I am much inclined to think that he will care less for this sort of feeling than you and I. The deacon was never in blue water.”

“So I suppose—­He has a charming daughter, I believe, Gar’ner?”

“You mean his niece, I suppose,” answered Roswell, colouring.  “The deacon never had any child himself, I believe—­at least he has none living.  Mary Pratt is his niece.”

“It’s all the same—­niece or daughter, she’s comely, and will be rich, I hear. Well, I am poor, and what is more, a cripple!”

Roswell could have knocked his companion down, for he perfectly understood the character of the allusion; but he had sufficient self-command to forbear saying anything that might betray how much he felt.