“Why?” I said quickly, for the man’s quiet, serious way impressed me.
“Well, you see, sir,” he replied, “if a man says he’s seen a monster out at sea, and it isn’t a whale which people knows of, having been seen, they say directly he’s a liar, and laugh at him, and that isn’t pleasant.”
“Of course not,” I replied, “if he is telling the truth.”
“Of course, sir, if he’s telling the truth; and, take it altogether, what I know of sailors after being at sea thirty-two year, beginning as a boy of twelve, sailors ain’t liars.”
“Well, let’s hope not,” I said.
“They ain’t indeed, sir,” said the man earnestly. “They do foolish things, drinking too much when they get ashore after a voyage, and spending their money like asses, as the saying goes; but a chap as is at sea in the deep waters, and amongst storms and the lonesomeness of the great ocean, gets to be a serious sort of fellow—he isn’t the liar and romancer some people seem to think.”
“No, but you do spin yarns, some of you?” said Tom.
“Well, yes, of course,” said the sailor. “Why not sometimes for a bit of fun? but when a man’s in ’arnest he ought to be believed.”
“Of course,” said Tom; “but I say, mate, you never see the sea-serpent, did you?”
The man did not answer for a few moments, but stood gazing straight out to sea before saying quietly: