“Mr. Merritt, I feel that your deed was terrible, but I can’t find it in my heart to blame you, except that you acted in revenge. But that man was a danger and needed killing, I know, and I feel that you were only the instrument in doing a necessary work. I couldn’t think any less of you, for I believe you acted according to the light you had, and anyhow I love and admire you.”
CHAPTER XII C. B.’s Great Temptation
From that eventful evening the friendship between these two most strangely assorted chums deepened in force until every man in the ship knew certainly, what he had only suspected before, that whoever took it in hand to do despite to one of them would surely have to reckon with the other. And that knowledge had a wholly quietening and sweetening effect upon all hands. Every one knew by this time, knew intimately, that C. B.’s principles were of a high and noble kind, that he would always be on the side of the good and true, and would be ready to put up with much trouble and annoyance from anybody rather than assert himself. But they all knew also that his chum Merritt was of a totally different stamp. They felt that, given what he considered cause, he would as soon kill a man as eat an orange, and they were afraid that if they offended C. B. and Merritt got to know of it, he might suddenly apply his own method of chastisement to the offender.
And so the Eliza Adams became a most eminently peaceful as well as hard-working ship. Captain Taber used to gaze admiringly upon the quiet gangs working here and there, with never a voice upraised in anger, and say to his mate, “Winsloe, I’ve often said that the day of miracles was long past, but I ain’t so sure now. You and me always looked upon the old hooker as a good ship, an’ by jingo, she was a good ship compared with lots that we’ve known, a perfect little galley of angels, but they was a good deal of rough house at times in order to keep her good, now wasn’t they?”
“True ’nough, captain,” sententiously assented Winsloe, “men must be kep’ in hand.”
“That’s just my point, Winsloe,” eagerly interrupted the skipper. “Ever since the weltin’ that Merritt gave Pepe she ain’t wanted no keepin’ in order, she’s been an abode of peace; y’ haven’t had t’ raise yer voice above a whisper to get everything done on the instant. Whatever is it in this young fellow that makes such a change in everybody that comes near him? Some fellows hate him like pizen, others freeze to him like Merritt, an’ yet he doesn’t do or say anythin’ except his plain duty.”
“I guess I don’t know, sir,” yawned Winsloe as if tired of the subject. “S’long as a man does his work ’thout giving trouble I ain’t usin’ my brains on his character. Don’t make no sort o’ difference t’ me.”
“Ah, I see,” murmured the skipper, and turned away, fully convinced in his own mind that Mr. Winsloe did not view C. B. with any favour, in fact, was a man of that strange mind calibre, that praise of any other man, whether affecting him or not, acted upon him like a personal affront.