"The tale began long ago, Billy. When Tom West was about fourteen years old, his father died. 'Twas of a Sunday afternoon, Tom says, that they stowed him away. He remembers the time: spring weather and a fair day, with the sun low, and the birds twittering in the alders just before turning in.
"Skinflint Sam caught up with young Tom on the road home from the little graveyard on Sunset Hill.
"'Well, lad,' said he, 'the old skipper's gone.'
"'Ay, sir, he's dead an' buried.'
"'A fine man,' said Skinflint. 'None finer.'
"With that young Tom broke out crying. 'He were a kind father t' we,' says he. 'An' now he's dead!'
"'You lacked nothin' in your father's life-time,' said Sam.
"'An' now he's dead!'
"'Well, well, you've no call t' be afeared o' goin' hungry on that account,' said Sam, putting an arm over the lad's shoulder. 'No; nor none o' the little crew over t' your house. Take up the fishin' where your father left it off, lad,' said he, 'an' you'll find small difference. I'll cross out your father's name on the books an' put down your own in its stead.'"
Billy Topsail interrupted.