“‘’Tis the smallpox, sir,’ says I. ‘I seed the spots.’
“‘No such nonsense!’ says the skipper. ‘’Tis the measles. That’s what he’ve got. Jagger an’ me says so.’
“‘But Jagger ain’t here,’ says I.
“‘Never you mind about that,’ says he. ‘I knows what Jagger thinks.’
“When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn’t no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir, we knowed what ’twas. Believe me, sir, we knowed what ’twas. The cook he up an’ says he ain’t afraid o’ no smallpox, but he’ll be sunk for a coward afore he’ll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An’ the second hand he says he likes a bunk in the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he’ve no objection t’ the hold at times. ‘Then, lads,’ says the skipper, ‘you’ll not be meanin’ t’ look that way agin,’ says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. ‘An’ if you do, you’ll find a fist about the heft o’ that,’ says he, shakin’ his hand, ‘t’ kiss you at the foot o’ the ladder.’ After that the cook an’ the second hand slep’ in the hold, an’ them an’ me had a snack o’ grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. ’Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. ’Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,—drove her like he’d always done: all the time eatin’ an’ sleepin’ in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o’ the smallpox. But we o’ the crew kep’ our distance when the ol’ man was on deck; an’ they was no rush for’ard t’ tend the jib an’ stays’l when it was ‘Hard a-lee!’ in a beat t’ win’ard—no rush at all. Believe me, sir, they was no rush for’ard—with Tommy Mib below.
“‘Skipper Jim,’ says I, one day, ‘what is you goin’ t’ do?’
“‘Well, Docks,’ says he, ‘I’m thinkin’ I’ll go see Jagger.’
“So we beat up t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle—makin’ port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderful long time; an’ when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an’ all sail made.
“‘Where you goin’?’ says I.
“‘Tradin’,’ says he.