A square-set little Norwegian with a large head, puffy face, faded blue eyes, and a beard that, commencing just below them, flowed in wavy masses nearly to his waist; the “Doctor” had already achieved a reputation among us for taciturnity and gruffness quite out of keeping with his appearance.
As a cook he was no better or worse than the average, except in one particular, his cleanliness; and as the majority of sailors in British ships do not expect such a miracle as would be necessary in order to change the bad, scanty provisions supplied into tasty food by cooking, a clean cook is pretty certain of becoming a prime favourite for’ard.
But Olaf Olsen courted no man’s company or favour. To all such sociable advances as were made him by various members of the crew he returned the barest answer possible, letting it plainly be seen that he considered his own society amply sufficient for all his desires. One of the most difficult positions to maintain, however, on board ship is that of a misanthrope. Sooner or later the need of human fellowship always asserts itself, and the most sullen or reserved of men let fall their self-contained garment. Olsen was no exception to this rule.
Before we had been a month at sea, I was sitting on the spare spars opposite the galley door silently smoking during the last half-hour of the second dog-watch, in full enjoyment of the delicious evening freshness, when the cook suddenly leaned out over the half-door of his den and said—
“You looks fery quiet dis efening, ain’t id?”
I was so taken aback by his offering any remark that I let my pipe fall out of my mouth, but stooping to pick it up gave me time to collect myself and reply in a cheery word or two, feeling curiously anxious to draw him out. One word brought on another, as the common phrase has it, and five minutes after his first remark he was sitting by my side yarning away as if trying to make up for lost time. I let him talk, only just dropping a word or two at intervals so as to keep him going by showing him that I was paying attention. Presently he broke off some rambling remarks by saying abruptly—
“You efer bin t’ Callyo?”
“No, but I’ve heard a lot about it,” I replied. “Pretty hard citizens around there, ain’t they?”
“Id’s de las’ place Gott Allamitey efer made, my boy, an’ de deffel’s ben a dumpin’ all de leff-overs in de vorl’ down dere efer since,” grunted he. “I vas dere las’ voy’ge. You know a ship call de Panama—big wooden ship’bout fourteen hundred ton? Yell, I vas cook apoard her, ben out in her over two yere ven ve come ofer frum Melbun in ballas’. Ve schip a pooty hard crout in de Colonies, leas, dey fancy demsellufs a tough lot, but mie Gott! dey tidn’ know’ Capn Tunn. No, dey tidn’, ner yet de tree mates,’n’ leas’ of all dey tidn’ know me. I like de afterguard fus’-class, me an’ dem allvus ked along bully, an’ ve vas all lef’ of de fus’ crew ship’ in London.
“De Bosun, Chips, an’ Sails wa’nt any count; square-heads all tree ov’ em. P’raps you’se tinkin’ I’m a square-head, too? Yus, but I’m f’m Hammerfes’, an’ dey don’ breed no better men in de vorl, dan dere. Veil, I see how tings vas coin’ t’be, ’fore ve ked out of Bass’s Straits,’n I dells you, my poy, dere vas dimes pooty soon. De ole man vas a Kokney, but he looks so much like me as if he been my dvin broder. He speak fery low an’ soft—de mate alvus done de hollerin’; but de fus’ time one of de fellers gif him some slack, he pick him from de veel like he bin a crab, unt schling him forrut along de poop so he fall ofer de break onto de main-deck vere de mate vus standin’ ready ter kig him fur fallin’. De noise bring de vatch below out, an’ dey all rush af’, fur a plug mush. I come too, but I sail in an he’p de ole man, un’ I dell you id vas a crate fight, dere vas blut unt hair flyin’.