“Jest look at A Mad Love,” he would protest. “A woman wrote that and jest look at it—one hundred and three chapters when it could all have been told in ten. A writing woman never knows when to stop; that’s the trouble. The p’int of good writing is to know when to stop.”
“Mr. Ford wants to hear some of your stories, Captain Jim” said Anne. “Tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was the Flying Dutchman.”
This was Captain Jim’s best story. It was a compound of horror and humor, and though Anne had heard it several times she laughed as heartily and shivered as fearsomely over it as Mr. Ford did. Other tales followed, for Captain Jim had an audience after his own heart. He told how his vessel had been run down by a steamer; how he had been boarded by Malay pirates; how his ship had caught fire; how he helped a political prisoner escape from a South African republic; how he had been wrecked one fall on the Magdalens and stranded there for the winter; how a tiger had broken loose on board ship; how his crew had mutinied and marooned him on a barren island—these and many other tales, tragic or humorous or grotesque, did Captain Jim relate. The mystery of the sea, the fascination of far lands, the lure of adventure, the laughter of the world—his hearers felt and realized them all. Owen Ford listened, with his head on his hand, and the First Mate purring on his knee, his brilliant eyes fastened on Captain Jim’s rugged, eloquent face.
“Won’t you let Mr. Ford see your life-book, Captain Jim?” asked Anne, when Captain Jim finally declared that yarn-spinning must end for the time.
“Oh, he don’t want to be bothered with THAT,” protested Captain Jim, who was secretly dying to show it.
“I should like nothing better than to see it, Captain Boyd,” said Owen. “If it is half as wonderful as your tales it will be worth seeing.”
With pretended reluctance Captain Jim dug his life-book out of his old chest and handed it to Owen.
“I reckon you won’t care to wrastle long with my old hand o’ write. I never had much schooling,” he observed carelessly. “Just wrote that there to amuse my nephew Joe. He’s always wanting stories. Comes here yesterday and says to me, reproachful-like, as I was lifting a twenty-pound codfish out of my boat, 'Uncle Jim, ain’t a codfish a dumb animal?’ I’d been a-telling him, you see, that he must be real kind to dumb animals, and never hurt ’em in any way. I got out of the scrape by saying a codfish was dumb enough but it wasn’t an animal, but Joe didn’t look satisfied, and I wasn’t satisfied myself. You’ve got to be mighty careful what you tell them little critters. THEY can see through you.”
While talking, Captain Jim watched Owen Ford from the corner of his eye as the latter examined the life-book; and presently observing that his guest was lost in its pages, he turned smilingly to his cupboard and proceeded to make a pot of tea. Owen Ford separated himself from the life-book, with as much reluctance as a miser wrenches himself from his gold, long enough to drink his tea, and then returned to it hungrily.
“Oh, you can take that thing home with you if you want to,” said Captain Jim, as if the “thing” were not his most treasured possession. “I must go down and pull my boat up a bit on the skids. There’s a wind coming. Did you notice the sky tonight?