And now the lid of the after companion is pushed open, and, just like a jack-in-the-box, up pop a head and shoulders.
The rest of the body follows, and next minute the captain himself approaches the spot where our heroes are standing together, holding on to the mizzen rigging.
“And how are you by this time, Sandie, man?” he says right cheerily.
Sandie answers quite as cheerily, and conversation becomes general.
The captain is a short, stoutish individual, very rosy and jolly as to face, very white as to whiskers and hair. His age might be sixty-and-five, but he has all the activity of a youth of twenty.
It seems to me, to put it parenthetically, that a life on the ocean wave really tends to keep people young. Somehow, it makes men brave, because they are always face to face with danger, till in course of time they become so inured to its presence that they can afford to despise it. The sea gives health and strength too, and these in turn give contentment and jollity; and if a man has this, he is bound to feel young, and look young also. There is some truth, therefore, in the term “A jolly tar.”
“And now, boys,” says the captain, “come down to supper. I promised to look after you, and faith I’m going to do my duty.”
The table was already laid, with plenty of delicious cold meat and vegetables, to say nothing of pudding and sweets.
The first mate sat at one end of this table, a tall, brown-faced, swarthy individual, with shoulders of wondrous breadth, and hands as big as spades, more or less. But he had a right merry twinkle in his eye, especially when the captain asked him to join him in a glass of rosy wine. The rosy wine, I may inform you, was nothing more nor less than rum.
After supper the midshipman came down, having been relieved for a spell by the second mate, who lived forward with other petty officers and an apprentice or two.