"The 'Merry Andrew,' that you're going to make your first voyage in, is a fine ship; the skipper is a fine skipper--a man he is, and that's what a ship wants--a man and not an image." The Old Sailor said this in a tone of exasperation, inspired, possibly, by some tantalizing remembrance of a ship commanded by an image instead of a man. "So stick to your watchword, my lad. It wouldn't be a bad thing now if we were to drink to it."
The cunning old rascal was only too glad of a chance to get at his grog.
"Bravo!" exclaimed Dan, clapping his hands.
No sooner said than done. Hot water, lemon, sugar, rum, compounded with the skill of an artist. A glass for Joshua, a glass for Dan, a glass for the Old Sailor, and a small glass for Ellen. Not one of them seemed afraid of it--not even Ellen.
"Now then," said the Old Sailor, smiling as the steam rose to his nostrils. "Now, then; the sailor's watchword--Duty, and may Joshua never forget it!"
"Duty, Jo," said Dan, nodding over his glass to Joshua.
"Duty, Dan," said Joshua, nodding to Dan.
Ellen said nothing aloud, but whispered something into her glass. Then they drank and sipped their grog, and resumed the conversation.
"Have you been to New Holland, sir?" asked Dan. The "Merry Andrew" was bound for New Holland.
"I was there when I was a youngster," replied the Old Sailor, mixing a second glass of grog for himself. "It was a wild country then; I am told it is growing into a wonderful country now. We were six months going out. We had nearly four hundred convicts aboard, most of them in irons. A miserable lot of desperate wretches they were! They were not well treated, and they knew it. We had to keep close watch over them; if they could have set themselves free by any means--they talked of it many a time among themselves--they would have captured the ship, and flung us overboard, or something worse. We landed them at Port Phillip, where the British Government wanted to form a settlement."