“I’m no Padre,” disclaimed Brother Bart, hastily. “I’m only an humble lay-brother, my good man, that has come to take care of these boys.”
“Brother or Father, it’s all the same to me,” was the gruff answer. “I’m a hardshell Baptist myself, but I’ve only good feelings to your kind. My old captain was one of you, and never a better man walked the deck. Now, duck, my lads, while I swing out the sail and we’ll be off.”
The passengers ducked their heads hurriedly while the ‘Sary Ann’s’ boom swung around. Her tawny sail caught the wind, and she was off with a light, swift grace that her looks belied.
“Golly, she can clip it!” exclaimed Jim Norris, who had a home on the Chesapeake and knew all about a boat. “What sort of a rig is she, anyhow?”
“Mixed like good terbacker,” briefly answered the owner, as he leaned back comfortably at the helm and bit off another chew. “Sloop, skiff, outrigger, lugger,—she’s got the good points of all and none of their kicks. Not that she ain’t got a spirit of her own. Every boat worth anything hez. Thar’s days when she takes the wind and thar’s no holdin’ her. You jest have to let her spread her wings to it and go. But, Lord, let that same wind begin to growl and mutter, let them waves begin to cap and swell, and the ‘Sary Ann’ is ready for them, you bet. She will drop all her fun and frolic, and scud along brave and bare agin the wildest gale that ever leashed a coast. And them young bloods over yon laugh at her,” continued the ‘Sary Ann’s’ owner, glowering at the gay buildings of the fashionable “boat club” they were just now passing. “They call her the Corsair,’ which is no Christian name to give an honest boat.”
“You’re right,” said Brother Bart: “And, though you haven’t the true faith, you seem to be a Christian yourself. What is your name, my good man?”
“Jeroboam Jimson,” was the answer. “Leastways that was what I was christened, my mother going in heavy for Scripture names. I had a twin brother Nebuchanezzar. Sort of mouth-filling for general use, so we was naturally shortened down to Neb and Jeb. Most folks call me Jeb yet.”
“It comes easier,” said Brother Bart; “though I’d never think of giving it to a man of your years. It seems a pity, with the Litany of the Saints convenient, to have to go back so far for a name. But that is no fault of yours, as God knows. Have you been living long in this place we are going to?”
“More than five and forty years,” was the answer,—“since the ‘Lady Jane’ struck the rocks off Killykinick, November 27, 1865. I was second mate to old Captain Kane; and I stood by him until last May, when he took the cruise that every man has to make by himself. And I’m standing by his ship ’cording to orders yet. ‘Blood is thicker than water, mate,’ he says to me; ‘I’ve got to leave all that I have to little Polly Raynor’s boy, but you’re to stick to the ship as long as you live. I’ve hed that put down in the log with my name to it, and priest and lawyer and doctor as witness. You’re Captain Jeroboam Jimson of the “Lady Jane,” in my place, and thar ain’t no land sharks nor water sharks can bother ye.’ I lay that’s the chap he called Polly’s boy,” said Captain Jeb, turning his eyes on Freddy, who, seated at Brother Bart’s side, had been listening, with flattering interest, to the old sailor’s conversation.
“Yes,” he spoke up eagerly, “my mother was Polly. Did you know her?”