"Well, I expect I'm supplied with both my officers."
"I thought that was what you was coming to. Good morning, sir."
"Won't you step down below, and take a little so'thing?"
"No, I thank you;" and Morton walked away, cursing him by all his gods.
After satisfying himself that there was no chance for him in Salem, he returned to Boston. Lounging about the wharves the next day, he was attracted towards a fine, large, new ship that was setting up her lower rigging. He drew near, to examine her more closely. Her guns were lying on the wharf, as were also her boats and spare spars. From the number of men employed, and the activity with which their operations were carried on, it was evident that the ship was to be off as soon as possible. Morton stepped on her deck: an elderly man, with a fine, open, manly countenance, expressive of great kindness of disposition and goodness of heart, was superintending the duty. Morton was about to address him, thinking to himself, "This is no Captain Slowly," when the senior gave him a nod, accompanied by that peculiar half audible greeting that passes between two strangers.
"You have a noble ship here, sir," said Charles, by way of starting the conversation.
"Yes, she is—so, nipper all that; Mr. Walker, you're getting that mainmast all over to starboard—yes, yes; she's a fine ship, that's certain. Your countenance seems familiar to me, and yet I can't tell where 'tis I've seen you."
"I belong to New Bedford; my name is Morton."
"Morton! what, old Jonathan Morton's son?"
"The same, sir."