“See those!” Nord touched a ten-inch hand-hewn beam of ironwood. “Look at those knees! All hand-hewn. Know how old this ship is? Fifty years.
“And yet—” He paused. “And yet, when Richard Byrd wanted a ship that would carry him safely through the polar ice of the Antarctic, Roald Amundsen, who had sailed on this ship as a boy, said: ‘She’s the one you want.’
“They found her,” his voice was mellow, almost tender, “tied up to a dock far north in Norway. They’d thought she was through; everyone who knew her thought that. And yet, isn’t it magnificent! To-day she’s about the most famous ship afloat. Byrd’s Polar Ship, they call her.
“She’s Scandinavian built,” he said proudly. “My ancestors were Norsemen. Can you blame me for admiring this old ship?”
“No,” said Florence. “I’m glad you told me. This ship was built right, wasn’t it?”
“Right and honest. They took their time about it, too.”
“And if we build our lives that way, right and honest, taking our time, we’ll last, too.”
“There’s reason to hope so.” He gave forth a low chuckle.
“Shall we go up on deck and sit a while?”
“I’d love to.”