“They wasn’t a man o’ the crew liked t’ hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper doesn’t know nothin’ about feelin’s, an’ the cook has more feelin’s ’n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin’ craft. There sits the ol’ man, smoothin’ his big, red beard, singin’ ‘I’m Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin’ up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An’ the devil was in his eyes––the devil was fair grinnin’ in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t’ see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an’ he isn’t no sort o’ craft t’ be out o’ harbor in a gale o’ wind like that.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper.
“‘Ay, sir?’ says the cook.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you ought t’ get married.’
“‘I on’y wisht I could,’ says the cook.
“‘You ought t’ try, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘for the sake o’ the crew. We’ll all die,’ says he, ‘afore we sights ol’ Bully Dick agin,’ says he, ‘if you keeps on burnin’ the water. You got t’ get married, cook, t’ the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,’ says he, ‘t’ save the crew. She’d do the cookin’ for you. It’ll be the loss o’ all hands,’ says he, ‘an you don’t. This here burned water,’ says he, ‘will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.’
“‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ ’blige you, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘an’ I’d like t’ ’blige all hands. ’Twon’t be by my wish,’ says he, ‘that anybody’ll die o’ the grub they gets, for mother wouldn’t like it.’
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘shake! I knows a man,’ says he, ‘when I sees one. Any man,’ says he, ‘that would put on the irons o’ matrimony,’ says he, ‘t’ ’blige a shipmate,’ says he, ‘is a better man ’n me, an’ I loves un like a brother.’
“The cook was cheered up considerable.