He was mate of a ship and smart as a red pepper poultice on
a skinned heel. He was a great churchgoer when he was ashore and always
preachin' brotherly love and kindness and pattin' us little shavers on
the head, and so on. Most of the grown folks thought he was a sort of
saint, and I thought he was more than that. I'd have worshiped him,
I cal'late, if my Methodist trainin' would have allowed me to worship
anybody who wa'n't named in Scriptur'. If there'd been an apostle or a
prophet christened Nickerson I'd have fell on my knees to this
Cummin's man, sure. So, when I went to sea as a cabin boy, a tow-headed
snub-nosed little chap of fourteen, I was as happy as a clam at
highwater 'cause I was goin' in the ship he was mate of."
He paused. There was a frown on his face, and his lower jaw was thrust
forward grimly.
"Well?" inquired Sylvester. "What happened?"
"Hey? Oh, excuse me. When I get to thinkin' of that v'yage I simmer
inside, like a teakettle on a hot stove. The second day out--seasick and
homesick and so miserable I wished I could die all at once instead of
by lingerin' spasms--I dropped a dish on the cabin floor and broke it.
Cummin's was alone with me, eatin' his dinner; and he jumped out of
his chair when I stooped to pick up the pieces and kicked me under the
table.
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