She was a big
Bath-built clipper, and her master a lusty down-Easter, a widower
with one daughter who had come with him around the Horn. John
Cardigan saw this girl come up on the quarter-deck and stand by with
a heaving-line in her hand; calmly she fixed her glance upon him, and
as the ship was shunted in closer to the dock, she made the cast to
Cardigan. He caught the light heaving-line, hauled in the heavy
Manila stern-line to which it was attached, and slipped the loop of
the mooring-cable over the dolphin at the end of the dock.
"Some men wanted aft here to take up the slack of the stern-line on
the windlass, sir," he shouted to the skipper, who was walking around
on top of the house. "That girl can't haul her in alone."
"Can't. I'm short-handed," the skipper replied. "Jump aboard and help
her."
Cardigan made a long leap from the dock to the ship's rail, balanced
there lightly a moment, and sprang to the deck. He passed the bight
of the stern-line in a triple loop around the drum of the windlass,
and without awaiting his instructions, the girl grasped the slack of
the line and prepared to walk away with it as the rope paid in on the
windlass. Cardigan inserted a belaying-pin in the windlass, paused
and looked at the girl. "Raise a chantey," he suggested.
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