"We have no clergyman," argued I. My heart thumped at the bare idea of standing up and holding Cynthia's hand before witnesses.
"I'm one," said the Skipper, drawing himself up proudly, so that I began to think that his recently developed fad for playing chaplain was at the root of his desire for this marriage. "A captain is always a clergyman on the high seas."
"On the high seas!" returned I, looking sarcastically round at the mossy hillside.
"Don't be a fool, Jones! See there!" He parted the low-sweeping branches. I looked out to sea, where a little bit of the wreck showed over the white-capped surface of the water.
He pointed with his short finger.
"You see that deck there? That represents power, Jones, one man power. I'm absolute monarch there, Jones. I'm clergyman on those bits of planks, Jones. There I'm prophet, Jones. There I'm priest, Jones, and there I'm king."
"You are not," said I, my orthodox blood boiling in my veins. "You're an old blasphemer, Captain Schuyler!"
"Well, you'll see whether I am or not. I'm goin' to marry you to Cynthy on that deck, just as sure as I sit here."
"How did she happen to consent?" asked I, beginning to weaken at this delicious prospect.
"All on my account," said the Skipper. "Now stop askin' questions and come along."