Uncle Naboth is a “natural born trader” and a wonder in his way. He isn’t a bit of a practical sailor, but has followed the seas from his youth and has won the confidence and esteem of every shipper who ever entrusted a cargo to his care. He has no scholastic learning but is very wise in mercantile ways and is noted for his sterling honesty.
My father has a wooden leg; he is old and his face resembles ancient parchment. He uses words only for necessary expression, yet his reserve is neither morose nor disagreeable. He knows how to handle the Seagull in any emergency and his men render him alert obedience because they know that he knows.
I admit that I am rather young to have followed the seas for so long. I can’t well object to being called a boy, because I am a boy in years, and experience hasn’t made my beard grow or added an inch to my height. My position on the Seagull is that of purser and assistant supercargo. In other words, I keep the books, check up the various cargoes, render bills and pay our expenses. I know almost as little of navigation as Uncle Naboth, who is the most important member of our firm because he makes all our contracts with shippers and attends to the delivery of all cargoes.
Over against the rail stands Ned Britton, our first mate. Ned is father’s right bower. They have sailed together many years and have acquired a mutual understanding and respect. Ned has been thoroughly tested in the past: a blunt, bluff sailor-man, as brave as a lion and as guileless as a babe. His strong point is obeying orders and doing his duty on all occasions.
Here is our second mate, too, squatted on a coil of rope just beside me—a boy a year or two younger than I am myself. I may as well state right here that Joe Herring is a mystery to me, and I’m the best and closest friend he has in all the world. He is long and lanky, a bit tall for his age and has muscles like steel. He moves slowly; he speaks slowly; he spends hours in silent meditation. Yet I have seen this boy in action when he moved swift as a lightning bolt—not striking at random, either, but with absolute intelligence.
Once Joe was our cabin boy, promoted to that station from a mere waif. Now he is second mate, with the full respect of Captain Steele, Ned Britton and the entire crew. He wears a common sailor suit, you’ll notice, with nothing to indicate his authority. When he is on duty things go like clockwork.
And now I shall probably startle you by the statement that Joe is the rich man, the financial autocrat, of all our little group. His bank account is something to contemplate with awe and reverence. He might own a dozen more expensive ships than the Seagull, yet I question if you could drive him away from her deck without making the lad absolutely miserable. Money counts for little with Joe; his associates and his simple if somewhat adventurous life completely satisfy him.
Reclining at my feet is a burly youth rejoicing in the name of Archibald Sumner Ackley. He isn’t a sailor; he isn’t a passenger even; Archie is just a friend and a chum of Joe’s and mine, and he happens to be aboard just because he won’t quit and go home to his anxious parents in Boston.
I fear that at the moment of this introduction Archie doesn’t show up to the best advantage. The boy is chubby and stout and not exactly handsome of feature. He wears a gaudy checked flannel shirt, no cravat, yellowish green knickerbockers, and a brown jacket so marvelously striped with green that it reminds one of a prison garb. I never can make out where Archie manages to find all his “striking” effects in raiment; I’m sure no other living being would wear such clothes. If any one ever asks: “Where’s Archie?” Uncle Naboth has a whimsical way of putting his hand to his ear and saying: “Hush; listen!”
With all this I’m mighty fond of Archie, and so are we all. Once on a time we had to get used to his peculiarities, for he is stubborn as a mule, denies any one’s right to dictate to him and is bent on having his own way, right or wrong. But the boy is true blue in any emergency; faithful to his friends, even to death; faces danger with manly courage and is a tower of strength in any encounter. He sails with the Seagull because he likes the life and can’t be happy, he claims, away from Joe and me.