“We were speaking, Isaac,” said the captain, “about this young man, and about building him a vessel. If I was able to build him one, fit her for sea, load her, and say to him, ‘Here, my boy, take her, and do the best you can for yourself and me;’ and then if he made a ‘funger,’ pocket the loss, I would lay the keel to-morrow. But in doing that, I must be concerned with others, and risk other people’s money. Here are Ben, Fred, John, and Charlie, all ready to strike, only waiting for me to say the word; and Mr. Welch would take hold in a moment if I should say to him, ‘Here is a young man, who I think capable, wants a vessel built.’ Now, how do I know he is capable of taking charge of a vessel and managing business in these squally times, with the English and French pitching into our commerce, and pirates to boot? A master of a vessel must have grit and cool judgment—qualities that don’t always nor often go together. He’s very young, has been only one voyage and part of another as mate; of course has had but little experience. Some men make first-rate mates, but poor masters; others poor mates, but excellent masters. Then, if he should make a losing voyage of it, I should feel very bad, and the rest (though they did not say it) might feel that they had been brought into difficulties, and lost money through me.”
“He is as old, and has had as much experience as Isaac had when he became master. You was keen enough for putting him ahead; far more than I was, though he is my own nephew, and has done splendidly. This young man has had the best of schooling, and ten times the privileges Isaac ever had.”
“Schooling! privileges!” cried the captain; “I wouldn’t give that (snapping his fingers) for the schooling and privileges. What do they amount to, if the man hasn’t got Indian suet,—hasn’t got the articles in him? They help, but they can’t put anything into a man. I knew Isaac from the egg. I watched him as he grew up. There’s a great deal in the blood. I knew the breed he came of, both sides. He sailed with me. I taught him, and knew him through and through,—knew he had the root of the matter in him. But in regard to this young man, I know only the father. If he takes after his father in mind, as he does in looks, he will be all right. But he may look like the father, and take after the mother. I don’t know anything about her or her people.”
“You mean to help him, don’t you?”
“Reckon I do, if my life is spared. But I could help him without building him a vessel, or involving other folks. I might give him a couple of thousand dollars in cash, and let him help himself; or say to him, ‘Arthur, go to Salem; see if some of your father’s friends, and the people you’ve sailed for, won’t build you a vessel. I’ll take an eighth or a fourth.’ I can help the mother,—that will be my own concern, and nobody’s business,—and I shan’t involve others, and risk their hard earnings.”
“But he’s been here some time. You’ve had him in your house all the time, with opportunities for talking with him, and making up your mind. What do you think?”
“I think well of him. I like him all round, think him capable, and, to tell the truth, that is what I’ve been backing and filling for so long, and keeping the boys back. I wanted time to make up my mind, and have you and the neighbors see and get acquainted with him, and find what you all thought of him.”
“As far as my opinion is worth anything, I shouldn’t hesitate a moment. There’s one little thing just settles the matter in my mind.”
“What is that, Isaac?”
“Why, his sticking by that captain. Here is a crew of men, the sweepings of Liverpool; they take the boats, compass, and other instruments, and shove off,—they’ve had trouble with the captain, and are down on him, and mean to have their revenge,—leaving him to shift for himself; the mate they like, and offer to take him with them—even coax him to go; they have provision, water, and instruments, and are not overloaded. In the boats, there’s no great risk; to remain, is almost certain death. He is under no particular obligations to the captain, who is an Englishman and a stranger, yet he sticks by him, because he thinks it his duty. If that ain’t pluck, principle, and Christianity,—if that ain’t real manhood, I wonder where you’d find it! There’s not one man in a hundred—no, not in a thousand—would or could have done it. And, Benjamin, ‘twill take a great deal to make me believe that a man who has got all that in him hasn’t all the other qualities that go to make up a man.”