“Yes, and if you want to know why it seems so to me you must listen to a story.”
There was no “must listen” for Nan where a story was concerned. She was all attention in a moment, an eager breathless little listener, and the captain began.
“Just thirty-six years ago a Spanish boy found himself without father or mother, and was set adrift on the world. Not a penny did he own, but he was a hearty, fearless little fellow, and he managed somehow to live, though he seldom knew where the next meal was to come from, or where he would sleep at night. By the time the boy was ten years old he grew tired of his vagabond life, and longed to learn how to read and write. So he resolved to go to the village school, and he earned a little money out of school hours here and there, and was a happier fellow than in the old idle days.
“No sooner had he learned to read and write in pretty decent fashion than he decided to run away to sea, for he had always a notion that he would be a sailor some day. I do not know that you could exactly call it running away, when no one cared very much whether he came or went; but for the next few years he had a pretty hard time of it, for to go to sea before the mast under a harsh and cruel captain is likely to make life rather difficult. Sometimes when he was sent out to reef the top-gallant sail he would balance himself on the yard, wondering if it would not be better to let himself drop into the ocean—the men would only think he had tumbled off; but somehow the fear of God always kept him from it.”
“Notwithstanding the hardship he went to sea again until he was twenty-five years old, and by that time he had worked up to be first mate of the——”
“Of the Christina?” Nan questioned, eagerly.
“Yes, of the Christina,” the captain admitted; “and he had managed to save enough to become part owner of her besides.” Nan had finished her work, but was quite unmindful of the fact, and sat gazing up to the captain's face, with her hands clasped round her knees.