"Hopin' to see a scrap. Bless you, Miss! I was retired from the sea—let alone from the navy—long ago. My darters are all pacifists—three of 'em. Prudence, Patience and Penelope. That was my wife's doin's." Vast disgust was expressed both in voice and features.
"What was?" asked Belinda, finding her interest in the curious old gentleman growing.
"Namin' those darters of mine." He always gave the word the old-fashioned New England pronunciation, although his speech was not much marred by a local twang. "I always managed to be at sea when the children were born and she had 'em christened one o' them outlandish names before I could make port. Long v'y'ges in those days. And we never had any boys.
"I could make up my mind," said Captain Dexter grimly, "that if there was a new baby on hand when I got home, it would be a gal and would have some milk-and-water name tacked on to it. By Hannah! I was always a fightin' man myself; but my wife ought to have been a Quaker."
"What would have been your choice of names for your girls?" Belinda asked, much amused.
"Something like Joan or Brunhild, Minerva or Judith—regular upstandin' names, those," he said promptly. "You see, Miss Melnotte, I believe the names children bear help form their characters. All my darters—Prudence, Patience and Penelope—are just as wishy-washy as the names sound."
"Oh, Captain Dexter!"
"Fact. Take it right now. All three opposed to war for any reason. Full up with foolishness about this peace business—and peace at any price, too! By Hannah! scare't to death at me goin' to sea again—want me to settle down ashore like a tabby cat beside the kitchen stove."
"I presume they think you have done your share, Captain."
"My share! Ain't I as spry as ever I was? What's seventy-odd? My family have always run old Methuselah a close race. I had one uncle who lived to a hundred and three—and then choked to death on a fishbone!"