Then we drew nearer and knew that Captain Buckingham was hauling up his anchor, and maybe would take us on a long way, which he surely did. The afternoon slipped on, hour by hour, and the fire snapped and cast its red light in our faces, and the kettle sung and the storm outside kept up its mad business, and the surf its monotone.
“I was so, when I was a lad of eighteen or nineteen,” Captain Buckingham said. “I was a wild one, though not large, but limber and clipper-built, and happy any side up, and my notion of human life was that it was something like a cake-walk, and something like a Bartlett pear, as being juicy anywhere you bit in.”
CHAPTER II. — THE “HEBE MAITLAND.” CAPTAIN BUCKINGHAM'S NARRATIVE.
“I was that way,” he said, “full of opinions, like one of those little terrier pups with his tail sawed off, so he wags with the stump, same way a clock does with the pendulum when the weight's gone—pretty chipper. I used to come often from the other end of Newport Street, where I was born, to Pemberton's. But that wasn't on account of Pemberton, though he was agreeable, but on account of Madge Pemberton. Madge and I were agreed, and Pemberton was agreeable, but I was restless and keyed high in those days, resembling pups, as stated.
“No anchoring to Pemberton's chimney for me,” I says. “No digging clams and fishing for small fry in Long Island Sound for me. I'm going to sea.”
And Madge asks, “Why?” calm and reasonable, and I was near stumped for reasons, having only the same reason as a lobster has for being green. It's the nature of him, which he'll change that colour when he's had experience and learned what's what in the boiling. I fished around for reasons.
“When I'm rich,” I says, “I'll fix up Pemberton's for a swell hotel.”
Madge says, “It's nice as it is,” and acted low in her mind. But if she thought the less of me for wanting to go to sea, I couldn't say. Maybe not.