Nay, the seadog of Cowes is no man to be the prey of womanish tremors; he goes gaily like a true Mariner to confront the elements.
A basket with a turbot is in the stern-sheets; that turbot will form part of the seadog's humble evening meal.
Twenty strokes more—the peril is past; and the seadog bounds on to the deck of his stout vessel.
