“Aye; and I’m sure I’ve had to refuse you jest as often.”
“Why, father?”
“For your own good, sonny.”
“I can’t see it, father,” I rejoined. “Look at them Saint Vincent boys in that cutter a-crossing our bows now. How jolly they all seems working at their proper calling, just as I’d like to be!”
“Aye, mebbe,” said father, in his sententious way, cocking his eye as the cutter sped on its way towards the training-ship. “But jest you look at me, Tom, and see what forty years’ sailorin’, man and boy, have done for one o’ the same kidney as them boys, jolly though they seems now. Poor young beggars, they all has their troubles afore ’em!”
“Most of us have our troubles, father,” I replied to this bit of moral philosophy of his, speaking just in his own manner. “So our old parson said on Sunday last, when mother and Jenny and I went to church. We are all bound to have them, he said, whether on sea or on land; and I can’t say as how a sailor has the worst chance.”
“Ship my rullocks, Tom, can’t ye? Jest you look at me!”
“Why, father?” I asked. “What’s the use of that?”
“None o’ your imporence, Master Tommy; jest you look at me!”
“All right, father,” said I. “I am a-looking at you now!”