“You hate ’em, do ye?”
“Like snakes. For months they’ve hunted me as a dog,” half howled and half wailed Israel, at the memory of all he had suffered.
“Give me your hand, my lion; wave your wild flax again. By Heaven, you hate so well, I love ye. You shall be my confidential man; stand sentry at my cabin door; sleep in the cabin; steer my boat; keep by my side whenever I land. What do you say?”
“I say I’m glad to hear you.”
“You are a good, brave soul. You are the first among the millions of mankind that I ever naturally took to. Come, you are tired. There, go into that state-room for to-night—it’s mine. You offered me your bed in Paris.”
“But you begged off, Captain, and so must I. Where do you sleep?”
“Lad, I don’t sleep half a night out of three. My clothes have not been off now for five days.”
“Ah, Captain, you sleep so little and scheme so much, you will die young.”
“I know it: I want to: I mean to. Who would live a doddered old stump? What do you think of my Scotch bonnet?”
“It looks well on you, Captain.”