The
_Harvest Moon_ made no effort to escape her anchorage, though
the engine below began thumping busily.
Sadler went aft, dragging the long black hose, and sat on the rail
till the _Juanita_ drew in to forty feet away, and through the
deckhouse windows you could see the tufted caps of the suppressed
soldiery. Then he let a steaming arch out of the hose pipe, that
vaulted the distance and soaked the steersman, who howled and lay
down. Then the _Juanita_ ploughed on, and Sadler played his
hose, as she passed, through the windows of the deck house, where
there were crashes and other noises, and Irish's engine kept on
chug-chugging in the chest of the _Harvest Moon_. The _Juanita_
went out of reach, and the soldiery poured out on deck disorderly and
furious, and Sadler pulled me flat beside him, supposing they might
open a volley of musketry on us, but they didn't. Then he got up.
"They give me the colic," he says, and Irish put his head up the
companion way, and says: "The wather was too hot," he says and blew
his fingers, and Sadler gave a groan.
"There's my luck!" he says. "I meant to tell Irish to take the boil
off and forgot it. Now their skins'll peel.
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