The shrouds were now iced over, the sleet
having formed a crust round all the standing rigging, and on the
weather side of the masts and yards. When we got upon the yard, my
hands were so numb that I could not have cast off the knot of the
gasket if it were to save my life. We both lay over the yard for a
few seconds, beating our hands upon the sail, until we started the
blood into our fingers' ends, and at the next moment our hands
were in a burning heat. My companion on the yard was a lad (the
boy, George Somerby), who came out in the ship a weak, puny boy,
from one of the Boston schools,-- ``no larger than a
spritsail-sheet knot,'' nor ``heavier than a paper of
lamp-black,'' and ``not strong enough to haul a shad off a
gridiron,'' but who was now ``as long as a spare topmast, strong
enough to knock down an ox, and hearty enough to eat him.'' We
fisted the sail together, and, after six or eight minutes of hard
hauling and pulling and beating down the sail, which was about as
stiff as sheet-iron, we managed to get it furled; and snugly
furled it must be, for we knew the mate well enough to be certain
that if it got adrift again we should be called up from our watch
below, at any hour of the night, to furl it.
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