The first line to the ancient chantey the four always sang at the beginning of each summer voyage. His sons were supposed to answer with the following line, but they couldn’t get into the spirit of the thing, baffled and disconcerted as they were by his mood and by his refusal to explain why he was embarking without oilskins, seaboots, or anything but the clothes on his back. They wanted to ask if he’d put his dunnage aboard Double Eagle earlier, but they knew better than to speak to him now. With his temperament unpredictable as the sea he loved, serene in the morning and in the afternoon black as a line squall, he had never been easy to live with; but he had become nearly intolerable in the past few days, ever since the big argument with their half brother, who had shown up unexpectedly from New York. They had been at the boatyard when Lockwood arrived (it was like him to appear and disappear on a moment’s notice) and did not witness the argument. Dailey told them about it when he came by to pick them up at the end of the day, and all he said was that it had been a nasty one, very nasty, and advised them to stay out of their father’s way when they got home.