"Well," said Trunnell, "I'll tell ye what I'll do. You get a sail needle an' a line to it about half a fathom long, see?"
"I sees."
"Well, then ye go about between decks, an' in the alleyways, an' behind the bunks, an' around the galley, an' earn yer own outfit with that needle, see? When ye have a string o' bugs a-fillin' the string like clear up to the needle's eye, ye bring them aft to me, an' I gives ye credit fer them in clothes or grog, each string bein' worth a drink, an' a hundred worth a shirt or pants. Do ye get on to the game?"
"I get on to it well enough," said the fellow, "but what I wants to know is, whether ye'll take me whurd o' honner that I'll catch a string o' bugs afore night, an' give me the rum now to stave off the chill."
"I will," said Trunnell.
The old man rose from the hatchway, and struggled hard to get into his shirt. The garment had shrunk so, however, that the sleeves reached but to his elbows and the tails to his waist band. He seized the open front in his hand and looked solemnly at the mate with his sad eyes.
"Lead me to it! Lead me to it! For the Lord's sake, lead me to it!" he said quietly.
And Trunnell went into the forward cabin with the apparition following eagerly in his wake.
What a strange little giant he was, this mate! "Discipline is discipline," he would say, and no man got anything for nothing aboard his ship.