When I had made a good copy of the above stipulation, that is, as good a copy as I could make with the worthless pen, I passed the paper over to my superiors for them to sign.
“You sign first, Gates.”
“No, you sign first, Gamans.”
“I’ve got a little rheumatism in my hand, Gates.”
“I’ve got a kink in my forefinger, Gamans.”
I wanted to say, “What is the use of making all this fuss? Neither of you can hardly more than sign his name, but that’s no disgrace. Some of the ablest captains have little education and, if they had been educated, they probably never would have risen to be captains. And here you two men are acting like old women who, when they sign their names, give all manner of excuses because their handwriting is so poor.”
“Give me the pen, then,” said our captain.
It took a mighty effort for him to write his name. He twisted his body and cramped his fingers, and, when the task was over, handed me the pen with a gesture of impatience.
I said, in a very respectful tone, “Don’t you think you had better write underneath the words, ‘Captain of the Seabird?’”
“Look here, young fellow, do you suppose I am going to write a book?” he replied, sharply.