CHAPTER VII.

In the morning, after standing our regular watches, all hands felt better.

I had been wondering how I could treat the affair of the log-book, and how I could get courage to face the passengers at the breakfast-table.

I was quite angry at the treatment I had received, but, on thinking the matter over during the night, I concluded to put on a bold front and act as though nothing had happened to strain my feelings.

Ill luck, I reasoned, could not make a man mean unless the man already had the instincts of a mean person to start with. It would only make him a little more careful and more stern of purpose.

I knew that a man with ill luck always appears mean to women, because women can seldom realize anything but success as a combination{80} of all the virtues in man. It is probably best for them that this is so, for it dissolves a great many combinations between men and women which might result in great discomfort to both. Therefore, I determined to dismiss the matter from my mind.

We had lost two men during the gale, and there was work to be done on our spars and rigging that would keep all hands busy for several days.

In spite of the feeling of relief which was expressed on the faces of all the men, there was a silence among them that told plainly how the loss of a shipmate will affect even the roughest sailor at first.

The dead man in the fo’c’sle was a ghastly sight, and the wounded one groaned loudly at times, so it was little wonder that the men of the starboard watch refused to heave down with a chorus when they trimmed the braces.

O’Toole cursed them roundly for a half-hearted set of loafers. He always cursed men from habit, and never struck them when his ideas and theirs were found to be different.{81} As the morning wore on, the sun shone at brief intervals through the gaps between the flying gulf clouds, and its warmth began to dry out our wet clothes and make things more cheerful.

Miss Waters joined us at breakfast, and appeared none the worse for the shaking up she had been through.

She was dressed in a neat-fitting cloth jacket that showed off her beautiful figure to great advantage, and she chatted and laughed in gentle good humour.

I have been in almost all countries and have seen nearly all kinds of women, but it seemed to me at that time that I had never seen one so beautiful in face and figure, and so gentle in disposition.

The girl, however, always appeared more interested in the third mate than in anything else.

Of course, I didn’t resent this, but it somehow made me feel conscious of my rough appearance, and convinced me that my sailor manners were out of place at the cabin table while she sat there. Her deep blue eyes had{82} a roguish look in them as she glanced across at me this morning.

I saw that she intended to say something to me, and I felt my cheeks burn at the fear of some allusion to the unfortunate incident of the evening before.

“Well, Mr. Gore,” she broke forth, “I suppose you are not going to forgive me for wishing for that storm? You can’t be so superstitious as to believe that my wishing had anything to do with the state of the weather. You need never fear that I’ll wish for another, though, for I never was so frightened before in all my life.”

“I suppose you know that we lost two men and that another was badly injured?” I answered, quickly, and then immediately felt what a fool I was to throw such a shadow over the young girl’s spirits.

“Why, no, indeed, I knew nothing of the kind,” she answered, and her laugh was gone, and her face grew pale.

“Where is the injured man?”

“In the fo’castle,” I answered, and, as I did so, the skipper gave me a warning frown.{83}

“Uncle David, I want you to let me go with Mr. Gore to see the poor man,” she said, quietly. “I had no idea anything so dreadful happened.”

The old skipper scowled at me and grunted out some reply, and I could see that he was anything but pleased at my reference to the accident.

However, I had no sooner gone on deck, after breakfast, than Miss Waters came to me and asked me to take her forward. The ship was running along easily under t’gallantsails, and the main-deck was safe enough, so, offering my arm for support, we started.

I noticed Brown hurrying along the port gangway and saw him enter the fo’castle. Then, when we arrived, he came out and answered my look by telling Miss Waters that she might enter.

It was no imagination on my part when I noticed the young girl shrink at the sight of dirty, wet clothes and the none too clean floor as we entered.

She still held to my arm, and we walked up to the form of a man lying in one of{84} the bunks. The third mate sprang quickly in front of us and pointed to a bunk farther forward, just as I was about to address a corpse.

The girl saw my quick movement as I turned my gaze in the right direction, and, although only the back of the dead man’s head was visible, she guessed the mistake I had made, for she trembled violently.

She went up to the wounded sailor, who stared at her in stupid wonder. Then she asked him how he felt, and put her soft little hand on his face and tried to cheer him up.

The poor fellow appeared almost frightened at this, and muttered some nonsense about an angel. But he was a foul-looking dago of the lowest class, and the girl could not understand him.

Finally, after promising to make him some gruel, she went on deck again, much to my relief. I could not help admiring the feeling of sympathy she showed for the man, but I felt that the fo’castle of a ship was not the place for a girl to enter, even attended as she was.{85}

When we went on deck, she drew a long breath and appeared thoughtful for some moments. Finally she said:

“Are all forecastles on ships like that?”

“Yes,” I answered, “only most of them are a good deal dirtier and worse ventilated. When I first went to sea, the fo’castle was always below, ’tween decks, and not a big, airy room, with windows in it, like the one we’ve just left. I remember, on the old clipper Mohawk, we would have thought a fo’castle like this one equal to the captain’s cabin.”

She was silent while we walked aft, and I supposed she was thinking of the sailor forward. Just as we gained the poop she turned her head and looked up at me, saying:

“And you were a sailor once and had to live in a place like that?”

“I am a sailor yet, I believe, and I will probably never be anything else, except a fool, also,” I answered; “but as for living in places like our fo’castle, I must confess that I’ve spent at least ten years in them.”{86}

She let go my arm and, I fancied, gave a hopeless little sigh.

“I think I’d rather be a cow and live in a comfortable barn,” she remarked, rather drily.

“No objection on my part,” I answered, quickly.

Then she thanked me for going with her, and joined the skipper, who had been standing near the quarter-rail watching us intently. He saw her safely aft to the companionway and then returned to where I stood. He was silent for some time and then looked at me and smiled. I have always believed the old skipper was something of a mind-reader.

“Women are queer things,” he said.

I said nothing, but looked an affirmative answer.

“But with man,” he went on, “more is to be hoped from. He should not let his thoughts dwell too much on the necessity of his getting married and propagating his species. It is natural for a woman to wish to get married for many reasons; but a man{87} should not let this be the principal object in his life. That this is, unfortunately, not always the case is proved by his thoughts and actions.

“When you get to be an old shellback, like me, you will see that, while love of women is good enough to a certain extent, there are other duties for an honest man to perform before his cruise is out.

“Now, take yourself, for instance. You never made a fool of yourself about women. And that’s the reason you had the Southern Cross—before you lost her. Whereas, if you were like O’Toole, who is always reading story-books, where would you be to-day? Story-books and women have kept him down, and one is about the same thing as the other. I’ve had hundreds of story-books sent aboard here by those women folks at the sailors’ mission, and one and all had the getting married and propagation of species as the central object for the yarn. Sometimes the hero would differ a little in regards to the details of getting the weather gauge of the sweet,{88} beautiful, fine, handsome girl—but the ends were all alike.

“No, sir, Mr. Gore, take my word for it, story-books and women, women and story-books—they are all the same in the end. They’ve kept O’Toole down for having them and you’ve worked your way up—to a certain extent—by not having them. A man should stick to his duty and let them alone until he gets old enough to understand them as I do.”

He was a rough, outspoken man, was old Captain Crojack.