'All right,' said Bill indifferently.
The old man crossed the forecastle, opened his chest, and, delving deep into its contents, brought forth a small, thin book.
It had seen much usage; the binding was broken, the leaves were stained and torn. The old man handled it tenderly. He held it high before him that the light from the swinging lantern might fall upon the text, and read stumblingly, pausing when the light swung too far from him, and making grotesque blunders over some of the long words.
'What is that book?' asked Bill after a time. 'It ain't the Bible?'
'No,' said Jansen. 'It ain't the Bible.'
'Then who is it says them things?' demanded Bill. 'He talks like he was Everything.'
Jansen lowered the book. 'I don't exactly understand what they call him,' he answered, 'they give him so many names. But I reckon nobody but God talks like that, whatever they call him.'
'Where did you get it? the book, I mean,' persisted Bill.
'I was cleanin' out a passenger's cabin, two voyages back, an' I found it under the bunk. I've been readin' it ever since. It's all full o' strange, forrin names, worse 'n the ones in the Bible.'
'Well, neither of 'em stands to help me much,' commented Bill. 'I ain't never been good. I've been a sailor-man. That book'—he broke off to groan as the ship rolled heavily, but resumed—'that book says same as the Bible, that a man's got to be pious an' do good an' have faith, an' all that, else he don't have no show at all.'