“What’s that to you?” said I savagely, for my heart was sore and heavy, and I could not stand the interference of a stranger.
“Oh! it’s nothin’ to me of course,” said the sailor, picking his pipe quietly with his clasp-knife; “but come here, boy, I’ve somethin’ to say to ye.”
“Well, what is it?” said I, going up to him somewhat sulkily.
The man looked at me gravely through the smoke of his pipe, and said, “You’re in a passion, my young buck, that’s all; and, in case you didn’t know it, I thought I’d tell ye.”
I burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, I believe you’re not far wrong, but I’m better now.”
“Ah, that’s right,” said the sailor, with an approving nod of his head, “always confess when you’re in the wrong. Now, younker, let me give you a bit of advice. Never get into a passion if you can help it, and if you can’t help it get out of it as fast as possible, and if you can’t get out of it, just give a great roar to let off the steam and turn about and run. There’s nothing like that. Passion han’t got legs. It can’t hold on to a feller when he’s runnin’. If you keep it up till you a’most split your timbers, passion has no chance. It must go a-starn. Now, lad, I’ve been watchin’ ye all the mornin’, and I see there’s a screw loose somewhere. If you’ll tell me wot it is, see if I don’t help you!”
The kind frank way in which this was said quite won my heart, so I sat down on the old cask, and told the sailor all my sorrows.
“Boy,” said he, when I had finished, “I’ll put you in the way o’ helpin’ your mother. I can get you a berth in my ship, if you’re willin’ to take a trip to the whale-fishery of the South Seas.”
“And who will look after my mother when I’m away?” said I.
The sailor looked perplexed at the question.