Uncle Paul sat very quietly thinking for some time, while the other occupants of the cabin were waiting for him to deliver himself of what seemed to be gathering in his brain. “You see, Captain Chubb,” he said at last, “human nature has always been prone to exaggerate. If a boy like my nephew here hooks a fish and loses it, he goes home and tells everybody that it was about five times as big as it really was.”
“Oh, uncle!” cried Rodd indignantly. “I am sure I never did!”
“Well, well, perhaps not,” said Uncle Paul shortly. “Don’t say ‘perhaps not,’ uncle. That isn’t fair. You know I always try to tell the truth.”
“Well, well; yes, yes, yes, yes,” said Uncle Paul testily. “I am not accusing you, Rodney. I am only alluding to what people who tell stories do.”
“Why, of course, uncle, they say what isn’t true if they tell stories.”
“Will you oblige me, Rodney, by letting me continue what I was about to say?”
“I beg pardon, uncle.”
“Yes, Captain Chubb,” continued Uncle Paul, “there is that natural disposition born with us, one which requires a great deal of education to eliminate; that disposition to exaggerate in talking about things we have seen and others have not.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” grunted the skipper. “People will stretch.”
“Exactly,” said Uncle Paul—“magnify wonders that they have seen.”