"They struck
seaweed--acres an' acres of it--square miles of it--everlastin'
seaweed!"
"Sargasso Sea!" exploded Washy Gallup, wagging his toothless jaw. "I
swanny!"
"I've heard about that place, but never seen it," said Cap'n Joab.
"And you don't want to," declared the narrator of the incident. "It
ain't a place into which no sailorman wants to venture. The
_Mailfast's_ comp'ny--so 'tis said--was driven far into the pulpy,
grassy sea. The miles of weed wrapped 'em around like a blanket. They
couldn't row because the weed fouled the oars; and they couldn't sail
'cause the weed was so heavy. But there's a drift they say, or a
suction, or something that gradually draws a boat toward the middle of
the field."
"Then, by golly!" exclaimed Milt Baker, "how in tarnation did they git
aout? I sh'd think anybody that every drifted into the Sargasso Sea
would be there yit."
"P'r'aps many a ship an' many a ship's company _have_ found their grave
there," said Cap'n Amazon solemnly. "'Tis called the graveyard of
derelicts.
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