“‘Never you mind about that, skipper,’ says the cook.
“‘No,’ says the skipper, ‘she isn’t handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but––’
“‘Never you mind, skipper,’ says the cook: ‘for mother always ’lowed that looks come off in the first washin’.’
“‘I ’low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,’ says the skipper. ‘You ain’t much on wits, but you got a good-lookin’ figure-head; an’ I ’low she’d be more’n willin’ t’ skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an’ see what she says. Tumm,’ says he, ‘is sort o’ shipmates with Liz,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low he’ll see you through the worst of it.’
“‘Will you, Tumm?’ says the cook.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll see.’
“I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin’ Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in the Love the Wind, bein’ cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an’ I ’lowed she would wed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I’ll go ashore with the fool t’ see that she don’t. No; she isn’t handsome––not Liz. I’m wonderful fond o’ yarnin’ o’ good-lookin’ maids, as you knows, Skipper Nicholas, sir; but I can’t say much o’ Liz: for Liz is so far t’ l’eward o’ beauty that many a time, lyin’ sick there in the fo’c’s’le o’ the Love the Wind, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. I will say she is big and well-muscled; an’ muscles, t’ my mind, counts enough t’ make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain’t in my heart t’ make sport o’ Liz; but I will say she has a bad foot, for she was born in a gale, I’m told, when the Preacher was hangin’ on off a lee shore ’long about Cape Harrigan, an’ the sea was raisin’ the devil. An’, well––I hates t’ say it, but––well, they call her ‘Walrus Liz.’ No; she isn’t handsome, she haven’t got no good looks; but once you gets a look into whichever one o’ them cross-eyes you is able to cotch, you see a deal more’n your own face; an’ she is well-muscled, an’ I ’low I’m goin’ t’ tell you so, for I wants t’ name her good p’ints so well as her bad. Whatever––
“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘I’ll go along o’ you.’
“With that Moses Shoos fell to on the dishes, an’ 253 ’twasn’t long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin’. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an’ he fished in there ’til he pulled out a blue stockin’, tied in a hard knot; an’ from the toe o’ that there blue stockin’ he took a brass ring. ‘I ’low,’ says he, talkin’ to hisself, in the half-witted way he has, ‘it won’t do no hurt t’ give her mother’s ring. “Moses,” says mother, “you better take the ring off my finger. It isn’t no weddin’-ring,” says she, “for I never was what you might call wed by a real parson in the fashionable way, but on’y accordin’ t’ the customs o’ the land,” says she, “an’ I got it from the Jew t’ make believe I was wed in the way they does it in these days; for it didn’t do nobody no hurt, an’ it sort o’ pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b’y,” says she, “for the dirt o’ the grave would only spile it,” says she, “an’ I’m not wantin’ it no more. Don’t wear it at the fishin’, dear,” says she, “for the fishin’ is wonderful hard,” says she, “an’ joolery don’t stand much wear an’ tear.” ‘Oh, mother!’ says the cook, ‘I done what you wanted!’ Then the poor fool sighed an’ looked up at the skipper. ‘I ’low, skipper,’ says he, ‘’twouldn’t do no hurt t’ give the ring to a man’s wife, would it? For mother wouldn’t mind, would she?’