“You are very right, O’Brien; I spoke foolishly.”
“Never mind, Peter, nobody heard you but me, so it’s of no consequence. Don’t you dine in the cabin to-day?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. The captain is in a most marvellous humour this morning. He told me one or two yarns that quite staggered my politeness and my respect for him on the quarter-deck. What a pity it is that a man should have gained such a bad habit!”
“He’s quite incurable, I’m afraid,” replied I; “but, certainly, his fibs do no harm; they are what they call white lies: I do not think he would really tell a lie, that is, a lie which would be considered to disgrace a gentleman.”
“Peter, all lies disgrace a gentleman, white or black; although I grant there is a difference. To say the least of it, it is a dangerous habit, for white lies are but the gentlemen ushers to black ones. I know but of one point on which a lie is excusable, and that is, when you wish to deceive the enemy. Then your duty to your country warrants your lying till you’re black in the face; and, for the very reason that it goes against your grain, it becomes, as if were, a sort of virtue.”
“What was the difference between the marine officer and Mr Phillott that occurred this morning?”
“Nothing at all in itself—the marine officer is a bit of a gaby, and takes offence where none is meant. Mr Phillott has a foul tongue, but he has a good heart.”
“What a pity it is!”
“It is a pity, for he’s a smart officer; but the fact is, Peter, that junior officers are too apt to copy their superiors, and that makes it very important that a young gentleman should sail with a captain who is a gentleman. Now, Phillott served the best of his time with Captain Ballover, who is notorious in the service for foul and abusive language. What is the consequence?—that Phillott, and many others, who have served under him, have learnt his bad habit.”