"He is charming and amusing. Only, he is very shy."
At four that afternoon Captain Flanagan presented his respects. The admiral was fond of the old fellow, a friendship formed in the blur of battle-smoke. He had often been criticized for officering his yacht with such a gruff, rather illiterate man, when gentlemen were to be had for the asking. But Flanagan was a splendid seaman, and the admiral would not have exchanged him for the smartest English naval-reserve afloat. There was never a bend in Flanagan's back; royalty and commonalty were all the same to him. And those who came to criticize generally remained to admire; for Flanagan was the kind of sailor fast disappearing from the waters, a man who had learned his seamanship before the mast.
"Captain, how long will it take us to reach Funchal in the Madieras?"
"Well, Commodore, give us a decent sea an' we can make 'er in fourteen days. But I thought we wus goin' t' th' Banks, sir?"
"Changed my plans. We'll put out in twelve days. Everything shipshape?"
"Up to the buntin', sir, and down to her keel. I sh'd say about six-hundred tons; an' mebbe twelve days instead of fourteen. An' what'll be our course after Madeery, sir?"
"Ajaccio, Corsica."
"Yessir."
If the admiral had said the Antarctic, Flanagan would never have batted an eye.
"You have spoken the crew?"