The seaman stopped short with an exclamation on the tip of his tongue. He stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips and rolled his head from side to side as he stared at Herbert with unblinking eyes. The scrutiny appeared to satisfy him.
“So you’re Dave Harkins’ boy, are you? Well, you look like him; you look like him just as he appeared when he was a young man. You’re different from him in some ways, but the resemblance is there just the same. You’re more like a chip off the old block than the old block itself. Now, boy, take a seat on that steamer chair there, get out your log book and tell me all about your journey through life.”
“All right, sir,” replied Herbert, taking the proffered seat; “I’ll do so.”
“By the way,” interrupted the Captain, “before you talk about yourself, tell me about your father.”
“You know that father is dead?” began Herbert.
“Yes, I know that,” answered the other, “but I want some details about it.”
“All right, I’ll try to give them to you.”
“By the way,” he interrupted again, as Herbert started to talk, “will you have a glass of grog to wet your whistle?”
“No, sir,” replied Herbert, “I don’t drink.”
“Good for you; you’re a good deal better without it; but an old salt like myself couldn’t do without his pipe and his grog, especially in his old days.”