“Thank you, sir; that is the best compliment I have received,” returned Harry, with a smile.
Little has been said thus far of Captain Hill, the chief officer of the Nantucket. He was a stout, red-faced seaman, nearing fifty years of age, and had been in service ever since he was fifteen. He was a thorough sailor, and fitted in every way but one to take charge of a ship bound to any part of the world. His one disqualification may be stated briefly—he had a passion for drink.
It was not immediately that this was found out. He took his meals with the passengers, but it was not then that he indulged his appetite. He kept a private store of liquors in his cabin, and had recourse to them when by himself, under the impression that he could keep it a secret. But intemperance, like murder, will out.
Harry and the professor were standing by the rail looking out at sea, one day, when a thick voice greeted them, “Good-mor’n’, gentlemen,” this address being followed by a hiccough.
Both turned quickly, and exchanged a significant glance when they recognized the captain.
“Yes,” answered Professor Hemenway, “it is indeed a fine morning.”
“I am sorry to see this, Harry,” said the professor.
“Yes, sir; it is a pity any gentleman should drink too much.”
“Yes, but that isn’t all,” said the professor, earnestly; “it is a pity, of course, that Captain Hill should so sin against his own health, but we must consider furthermore, that he has our lives under his control. Our safety depends on his prudent management.”
“He seems to understand his business,” said Harry.