"Singing, my boy; singing for money, and if so be that was to happen to any daughter of mine, I'd give her a dose of something to make her lose her voice—ay, if it was rat poison, I would."
It was a regular thing for Garner and Bramsen to have a comfortable chat down at the waterside, when the old sailor would generally relate some of his experiences at sea. These yarns especially delighted Garner, who came of a peasant stock himself, and knew nothing of the sea or foreign parts until he came to the town. He tried now to open up the subject again.
"Ever been in the Arctic, Bramsen?"
"Have I? Why, I should think so. I was up that way in '76, on a whaling trip with Svend Foya."
It was a habit of Bramsen's at the beginning of a story to make some attempt at a literary style, but he invariably dropped it as he went on.
"Dangerous business, isn't it?"
"Why, that's as you take it or as you make it. If one of the brutes gets your boat with a flick of his tail, there's an end of you, of course. I remember once we were after a big fellow; had a shot at him and got in just aft of the spout-holes. And then, take my word for it, he led us a dance. Off he went, full-speed ahead, and us full speed astern, but blister me if he didn't win the tug-of-war and sail off with us at nineteen knots, till we were cutting along like a torpedo boat. He wasn't winded, ye see, for his blowpipe was intact, and his gear below-decks sound and ship-shape. But at last we got him fairly run down, and settled him with a straight one through the heart."
"A whale's heart must be pretty big?"
"Why, yes, he's what you might call a large-hearted beast. About the size of a middling chest o' drawers or a chiffonier."
"Rough on a whale, then, if he got heart disease," laughed Garner.