“Nay, I know naught against it, Master Torrey, only it is a heathenish kind of name for a ship that is to sail out of our decent Christian town of Salem.”
“Heathenish! Let me tell you, Master Ichabod, that this world owes a vast deal to the heathen—more than she does to some Christians I could name.”
Now this awful speech was enough to make the very pig tails of many of Master Torrey’s acquaintance stand on end with horror and surprise. But Ichabod was used to his master’s ways, so he did not jump out of his chair, but only looked to the door to be sure that no one had overheard the terrible statement, for had such been the case there is no telling what might have come to pass.
“How do you make that out, Master Torrey?” he said, composedly.
“Did you ever happen to hear of Socrates or Cicero?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of ’em,” said Ichabod.
“And did you ever hear of the Duke of Alva, or Cardinal Pole, or Bloody Queen Mary, or Catenat?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of ’em,” returned Ichabod again, a little fiercely.
“And which was the better man, the Athenian or the Christians who burnt their fellows at the stake?” said Master Torrey, triumphantly, as one who had made a point.
“Umph!” said Ichabod; “I’m not a scholar like you, Master Torrey, but I’d like you to tell me whether they were Christians by name that poisoned Socrates and murdered Cicero?”