“’Taren’t that he’s such a good-looking lad, nor so big nor strong. I dunno what it was, but everyone took to him from the first day he come aboard. Never made himself too common nor free, but there he was, allus the gen’leman with you—what you may call nice.”
“Reg’lar true-born Englishman, I say,” said another.
“Nay, just aye like a young Scot,” said another.
“Hark at that!” said another, looking round defiantly; “it’s of Oirish descent he is. Isn’t his name Carey?”
“What!” cried another, angrily. “Carey—Carew. It’s a Welsh name inteet, and as old as the hills.”
“Never mind what he is—English or Scotch or Welsh.”
“Or Irish,” put in one of those who had spoken.
“Or Irish,” said old Bostock; “he’s as fine a lad as ever stepped, I say, and I’d take it kindly if one of you would take my watch to-night, for I want to hang about ready to do anything the doctor may want in the way o’ lifting or fetching water. It don’t seem nat’ral to stand by and see the stooard’s mate doing things for the lad as he’d, ask me to do if he could speak.”
“Ah! he mostly come to you, Bob Bostock, when he wanted a bit o’ fishing-line or anything o’ that kind.”
“He did,” said the old sailor, “and glad I allus was to help him. Maybe we are going to have a blow to-night, and if it comes so much the better. It’ll make it cooler for the poor lad, for it’s hot enough now. Yes, we’re in for a hurricane, my lads, as sure as we’re at sea.”