"That's right, my son; you're a beggar aboard this here boat. Don't aspire to anything else."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the quartermaster.
"And now that you've got to your bearings, as Trunnell would say, I'll tell you a little story about a man who lost a pet dog called Willie."
I saw that it was high time for me to get forward, and slipped away. I turned in ready for a call, thinking that perhaps Trunnell was right in regard to our future prospects in the South Atlantic.
V
When I turned out for the mid-watch that night, Trunnell met me at the door of the forward cabin. It was pitch dark on deck, and the wind had died away almost entirely. The canvas had been rolled up, as it had begun to slat heavily against the masts with the heave from a long, quick swell that ran rapidly from the southward. The running gear was not new, and Trunnell was a careful mate, so the ship was down to her upper topsails on the fore and mizzen and a main t'gallant on mainmast, the courses fore and after being clewed up and left hanging.
"He's out for trouble to-night," said the little mate. "Blast him if he ain't touching the boose again."
"Who, the skipper?" I asked.
"He's been below twice during the watch, an' each time he's gettin' worse an' worse. There he comes now to the edge of the poop."
I looked and saw our old man rolling easily across the deck to the poop rail. There he stopped and bawled out loudly,—