“Do you refer to me?” queried Abeuchapeta, with a frown.
“You have guessed correctly,” replied Morgan, icily. “I have quite forgotten your date; were you a success in the year one, or when?”
“Admiral Abeuchapeta, Sir Henry,” interposed Kidd, fearing a further outbreak of hostilities—“Admiral Abeuchapeta was the terror of the seas in the seventh century, and what he undertook to do he did, and his piratical enterprises were carried on on a scale of magnificence which is without parallel off the comic-opera stage. He never went forth without at least seventy galleys and a hundred other vessels.”
Abeuchapeta drew himself up proudly. “Six-ninety-eight was my great year,” he said.
“That’s what I thought,” said Morgan. “That is to say, you got your ideas of women twelve hundred years ago, and the ladies have changed somewhat since that time. I have great respect for you, sir, as a ruffian. I have no doubt that as a ruffian you are a complete success, but when it comes to ‘feminology’ you are sailing in unknown waters. The study of women, my dear Abeuchadnezzar—”
“Peta,” retorted Abeuchapeta, irritably.
“I stand corrected. The study of women, my dear Peter,” said Morgan, with a wink at Conrad, which fortunately the seventh-century pirate did not see, else there would have been an open break—“the study of women is more difficult than that of astronomy; there may be two stars alike, but all women are unique. Because she was this, that, or the other thing in your day does not prove that she is any one of those things in our day—in fact, it proves the contrary. Why, I venture even to say that no individual woman is alike.”
“That’s rather a hazy thought,” said Kidd, scratching his head in a puzzled sort of way.
“I mean that she’s different from herself at different times,” said Morgan. “What is it the poet called her?—‘an infinite variety show,’ or something of that sort; a perpetual vaudeville—a continuous performance, as it were, from twelve to twelve.”
“Morgan is right, admiral!” put in Conrad the corsair, acting temporarily as bo’sun. “The times are sadly changed, and woman is no longer what she was. She is hardly what she is, much less what she was. The Roman Gynæceum would be an impossibility to-day. You might as well expect Delilah to open a barber-shop on board this boat as ask any of these advanced females below-stairs to sew buttons on a pirate’s uniform after a fray, or to keep the fringe on his epaulets curled. They’re no longer sewing-machines—they are Keeley motors for mystery and perpetual motion. Women have views now they are no longer content to be looked at merely; they must see for themselves; and the more they see, the more they wish to domesticate man and emancipate woman. It’s my private opinion that if we are to get along with them at all the best thing to do is to let ’em alone. I have always found I was better off in the abstract, and if this question is going to be settled in a purely democratic fashion by submitting it to a vote, I’ll vote for any measure which involves leaving them strictly to themselves. They’re nothing but a lot of ghosts anyhow, like ourselves, and we can pretend we don’t see them.”