“I ask your pardon, sir?”
“Is the fool deaf? Can ye use a needle and thread?”
“After a rough fashion, sir, and I can knit a bit.”
“Mr. Waters?”
A man with a gold band round his cap stepped forward and touched it.
“Take him to the sail-maker. He can help to patch the old fore-stay-sail on the forecastle. And you can ——”
The rest of the order was in a low voice, but Mr. Waters saluted again and replied, “Yes, sir.”
The captain saluted Mr. Waters, and then as Alister moved off, he said, “You’re not sick, I see. Have you sailed before?”
“From Scotland, sir.”
Whether, being a Scotchman himself, the tones of Alister’s voice, as it lingered on the word “Scotland,” touched a soft corner in the captain’s soul, or whether the blue eyes met with an involuntary feeling of kinship, or whether the captain was merely struck by Alister’s powerful-looking frame, and thought he might be very useful when he was better fed, I do not know; but I feel sure that as he returned my new comrade’s salute, he did so in a softened humour. Perhaps this made him doubly rough to me, and I have no doubt I looked as miserable an object as one could (not) wish to see.