She was sloop-rigged, and carried a large jib and mainsail. Everything about her was fitted up in good style; indeed, the carpenters, riggers, and painters had been at work upon her for a month. I was rather sorry, as I looked at her, that I was not a rich man, able to own just such a craft, for I could conceive of nothing more pleasant than coasting up and down the lake, exploring the rivers, bays, and islands. I thought I could live six months in the year on board of the Florina very comfortably. But, then, I was not a rich man; and I had a great work before me, with no time to waste in mere amusements. "Now take off those stops, Phil." "Stops?" "Those canvas straps with which the mainsail is tied up," he explained. I concluded that the mainsail was the big sail nearest to me, and I untied the "stops," making a note of the name for future use. "That's it; now stand by the jib halyards," added Mr. Whippleton. "I'll stand by 'em till doomsday, if you will only tell me what they are." "I call things by their names in order that you may learn them," laughed the junior partner, as he went forward and cast off the ropes indicated, which were fastened to a couple of cleats on the mast. "One is the throat, and the other is the peak-halyard." We hoisted the sail, and I observed the use of the halyards, and how to manage and make them fast. I was confident that I should not have to be shown a second time how to do anything. Fortunately there are so few ropes on an ordinary sloop that my weak head could carry the names and uses of all without confusion. There was not much wind up there in the lagoon, or the river, as it is more politely called; but what there was came from the westward, and the skipper said it was fair to take us down to the lake. "Cast off the painter," continued Mr. Whippleton. "Who?" "The painter." "He's not here; and if he was, I shouldn't like to cast him off here, where the water is so dirty; I would rather wait till we come to a cleaner place," I replied. "That rope by which the boat is fastened to the wharf is called a painter," added the skipper. "O, is it?" I replied, unfastening the rope at the shore end, and pulling it on board. "That's it. You will be as salt as a boiled lobster one of these days, Phil." I thanked him for the compliment, as I supposed it to be, though I had not the least idea what a lobster was. The skipper took the helm, and the boat began to move. "Haul in that sheet, Phil," said he, quietly. I rushed for the cabin, where I had seen two beds very neatly made up in the berths. "Where are you going?" "After the sheet. There's some on the beds in the cabin." "The rope fastened to the boom," he continued, laughing at my blunder, and handing me the end of the line upon which I was to haul.