“Well, and mine’s Charlie. We’re both seafarers; don’t let us ‘Mr’ each other, or ‘captain’ each other either. You’re Tandy or you’re Dick, I’m Halcott or I’m Charlie, just as, for the time being, the humour may suit us. Is that right?”
“That’s right—ship-shape and seaman-fashion.” Two brown fists met and were shaken—no mincing landlubber’s shake, but a firm and hearty grip and wholesome pressure; a grip that seemed to speak and to say,—“Thine, lad, thine! Thine in peace or war; in calm or tempest, thine!”
How is it that sailors so often resemble one another? I cannot answer the question. But it is none the less true.
Tandy and Halcott appeared to have been cast in the same mould; the same open, bronzed, and weather-beaten faces, the same eyes—eyes that could twinkle with merriment one moment and be filled with pity the next.
Even Captain Weathereye himself, although older than either, and somewhat lighter in complexion, might easily have passed as brother to both.
“Well,” said Halcott, “I daresay you have a story to tell.”
“I’ve had strange experiences in life, and some were sad enough. For the sake of that dear boy and girl, I thank God I am no longer in the grip of poverty; but, my friend, I’ve seen worse days.”
“Tell us, Tandy.”
Tandy told him, sitting there, all the reader already knows and much more, receiving silent but heartfelt sympathy.
“So you’ve sold the Merry Maiden!”