"Never mind. What in everlastin' blazes do you mean by sittin' up aloft here and bellowin' about—rum and women?"
"Hold on, now, Cap'n Sears! Ho-ld on! That wan't no rum and woman song, that was the old 'Whisky, Johnny' chantey. Why, I've heard that song aboard your own vessels mo-ore times, Cap'n Sears. Why——"
"All right. But don't let me ever hear it sung near the Fair Harbor again. If you must sing, when you're over there sing—oh, sing the doxology."
Judah did not speak for a minute or two. Then he stirred rebelliously.
"What's that?" asked the captain. "What are you mumblin' about?"
"Eh? I wan't mumblin'. I was just sayin' I didn't have much time to learn new-fangled songs, that's all.... Whoa, you—you walrus! Don't you know enough to come up into the wind when you git to your moorin's?"
As his boarder took his lamp from the kitchen table, preparatory to going to his room, Mr. Cahoon spoke again.
"George Kent was over there, wan't he?" he observed.
"Eh? Oh ... yes."
"Um-hm. I cal-lated he would be. This is his night—one of 'em. Comes twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, they tell me, and then heaves in a Sunday every little spell, for good measure. Gettin' to be kind of settled thing between them two, so all hands are cal'latin'.... Hey? Turnin' in already, be you, Cap'n? Well, good night."