“I came in night before last in the schooner Ossipee from Chicago; but my name isn’t Jenkins.”
The stranger started, and looked at Guy a moment with an expression of great surprise on his face.
“Well, I declare, I have made a mistake—that’s a fact!” said he. “But you look enough like Jenkins to be his brother. You see, he’s a particular friend of mine, and I am always on the lookout to do him a neighborly turn. I wonder if you are as good a sailor as he is.”
“I am a sailor,” replied Guy.
“Of course you are. I can tell that by the cut of your jib.”
These words went straight to Guy’s heart, and vastly increased his importance in his own eyes. He straightened up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and took a few steps up and down the sidewalk, rolling from side to side as he had seen Flint do.
“Think I don’t know a sailor man when I see him!” exclaimed the stranger. “Why, I have been one myself. Take something warm this frosty morning?”
“No, sir,” emphatically replied the boy, who had already seen enough of the evils of strong drink. “You don’t get anything warm down me.”
“Good resolution!” cried the man, giving Guy’s hand another cordial shake, and slapping him familiarly on the back. “Stick to it. Do you know that that is one of the things that keeps you sailor men before the mast all your lives? It is the sober, intelligent ones, just such fellows as I see you are, who get to be mates and captains. Now, I can put you on a vessel where you will be pushed ahead as fast as you can stand it. You want a berth, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Guy. “I want to find my mate; and if I don’t succeed, I am going home.”