Young McKenzie found himself in an enchantingly novel world of seafaring and learning something new every day. He had recovered from his surprise at the beautiful class of vessel employed in the Canadian deep-sea fisheries, and the comfort of their forecastles and cabins, but what delighted him still more was the class of men who went to sea in these fishing craft. They were fishermen and farmers and lumbermen and seamen all rolled into one, and as they sat in the sun rigging up interminable fathoms of tarred cotton lines into fishing gear, their conversation would range from the planting of potatoes to the care of a “galled” ox; from the cutting of spruce “piling” and the clearing of an alder swamp to the forty fathom talk of searoads and sailormen. Most of them had been to the West Indies in schooners, brigs and barquentines. They talked glibly of Demerara, Trinidad and its “Pitch Lake”; the Sugar Loaf at Rio; the Prado and Malecon of Havana, and the salt pans of Turk’s Islands. They chewed tobacco, joked and yarned in a strangely fascinating drawl, and Donald’s seafaring blood would be thrilled by their unaffected relations of wild battles with sea and wind, and times when the sudden hurricane blows of spring and fall “blew th’ gaul-derned fores’l, jumbo’n jib clean aout of her ’n left us stripped to bare poles ’n th’ gaul-derned ledges to loo’ard!”
They all addressed each other by baptismal names and Donald was struck by the number of Biblical appellations, and also the odd Freemans, Wallaces, Bruces, Wolfes, Lincolns and other Christian names which sounded strange to his ears and betokened the liberty-loving spirit of ancestors. They were a fine type—lean, strong-muscled, sun-tanned, good humored and coolly daring, and Donald looked forward to life among them with anticipatory pleasure. In these craft and with these men for shipmates, he felt the fascination of the searoads coming over him stronger than ever, and the hateful memory of the days on the Kelvinhaugh were passing into oblivion.
They were almost ready for sea, and Captain Nickerson and Donald were standing on the wharf superintending the loading of some supplies, when the skipper gave a grunt. “Here’s Burton acomin’!” They turned around to see a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired man about forty stepping towards them. He had a clean-shaven face, a hard mouth, and cold grey eyes. “Hello, Jud,” he said in a high-pitched drawl. “See ye’re back with us again. Lime-juicin’ too much for ye these days?”
Nickerson grunted. “Cal’late lime-juicin’ didn’t hurt me any,” he said coldly. “But a man likes to be home an’ among his folks once in a while.”
The other picked up a pine splinter from the wharf, and producing a knife, began to whittle it. After a pause, he spoke again. “See ye’re agoin’ in fer fishin’. Ye’ve a smart vessel there.”
“Yep! She’s able!” answered Judson shortly.
Another pause. “Reckon ye can catch a trip o’ fish?” Still whittling, he asked the question without taking his eyes from the pine sliver.
“Reckon I kin!” replied Nickerson, and fixing the other with his steely glance, added, “I plan to be high-line eight-doryman this season.”
Whittling away, Captain Burton nodded slowly. “Umph!” he piped after a thoughtful pause. “Cal’late, Jud, I hev five hundred toad-skins loose what says you ain’t agoin’ to be ahead o’ th’ Annie L. Brown’s gang spring trip to fall.”
Judson laughed sarcastically. “The Annie Brown? Why ef I couldn’t trim that crowd of old women I wouldn’t ’temp to go afishin’. I am out to trim an abler gang than the Annie’s.” There was a grin on the faces of the loafing West Winders who sensed what was in the air and who hung around within earshot. Burton noted the grins and reddened. “I said, Jud, that the Annie L. Brown hez five hundred dollars to put up agin yore hooker. Do you take it, or do you not?”