I've been up all night. Called by messenger just as I turned in at
that confounded tavern, charged full price for a night's lodging,--curse
that skinflint Hodges!--and took a coach that brought me to Salem as fast
as it could clip over the road. I'm too fat to straddle a horse. Come,
where's Hamlin and that young scamp of yours?"
I scrambled out of bed and was dressing as fast as I could, when I heard
Roger also in the hall.
"Aha! Here he is," Mr. Webster cried. "Fine sea-captain you are, you young
mutineer, laying abed at cockcrow! Come, stir a leg there. I've been aboard
ship this morning, after a ride that was like to shake my liver into my
boots. Where's Ben Lathrop? Come, come, you fine-young-gentleman
supercargo."
Crying, "Here I am," I pulled on my boots and joined the others in the
lower hall, and the three of us, Mr. Webster, Roger, and I, hurried down
the street in time to the old man's testy exclamations, which burst out
fervently and often profanely whenever his lame foot struck the
ground harder than usual. "Pirates--mutineers--young cubs--laying abed--
cockcrow--" and so on, until we were in a boat and out on the harbor, where
the Island Princess towered above the morning mist.
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