The old master looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. Suddenly he stepped nearer and brought his face up close to Martin’s.
“Do ye know where the Scylla Deeps be?” he asked mysteriously.
“A sea no sailor has found, sir,” answered Martin.
The old master continued to peer at him with mistrust.
“Where did me best rope hang, boy?”
“From the yardarm, sir.” Martin gave him a slow smile. “And it’s not all that hung from there, sir,” he added, knowingly.
The master’s face turned into a series of amused lines and crevices. He grabbed Martin’s arm and his white lips puckered into laughter.
“If I could’ve had ye as cabin boy, me lad, ye might’ve made a sailor!—But no more steamship gab!” he warned, shaking his finger. He turned once more to the painting. “Now ain’t she a beauty?” He pointed with pride to the ship and over his ravaged face came a sorrowful and faraway expression. “She was trim as a herring,” he said, so low they could scarcely hear. “Trim as a herring, me boy.”
Martin spoke soberly, with an infinite respect.
“She was, sir. And she is. I’m glad you’re bringing her alive.”