Don't get him too good, though; that wouldn't be natural. And
don't get him too bad, neither. I know it's the fashion, judgin' by the
sea yarns I've read lately, to have a Yankee skipper sort of a cross
between a prize fighter and a murderer. Fust day out of port he begins
by pickin' out the most sickly fo'mast hand aboard, mashes him up, and
then takes the next invalid. I got a book about that kind of a skipper
out of our library down home a spell ago, and the librarian said 'twas
awful popular. A strong story, she said, and true to life. Well, 'twas
strong--you could pretty nigh smell it--but as for bein' true to life,
I had my doubts. I've been to sea, command of a vessel, for a good many
years, and sometimes I'd go weeks, whole weeks, without jumpin' up and
down on a single sailor. Fact! Got my exercise other ways, I presume
likely.
"I tell you," he went on, "the main trouble with that tale of yours, as
I see it, is that you're talkin' about things you ain't ever seen. Now
there's plenty you have seen, I wouldn't wonder. Let's see, you was born
in Belfast, you said. Live there long, did you?"
"Yes, until I went away to school."
"Your father, he went to sea, did he?"
"Yes. But his ship was lost, with all hands, when I was a baby.
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