I was not a little astonished at the appearance of Richards. He was all cleaned up and wore a scarf tied under his newly shaved chin. He was always neat in appearance, but here he was, without anything apparently to tog out with, all rigged as fine as though he were going ashore. His smooth face, sunburned and lined as it was from exposure, seemed to tell of much hardship in the past. He was a solemn-looking fellow at best, and to see him togged out in this shape, with his hands washed and old clothes brushed, was strange. He took his place at the table without a word.
“You see,” said Captain Watkins, looking at me with his sharp eyes, “I believe in the equality of all men.”
I nodded, for it was not often the mates and sailors of a ship had a chance to eat in the forward cabin of a vessel, especially together. The Scotchman, Martin, eyed the old fellow narrowly. We could not all be mates.
“One man’s as good as another, and sometimes even better,” said Richards, softly.
“That’s it. Even a black man is as good as a white one. Some people don’t think so, but I know it’s so,” said the skipper.
“I’ve seen some I thought better,” said Richards, helping himself to a piece of boiled meat, “but it don’t keep people from jerking them up for slaves when they get a chance.”
“I have known slavers,” said the old man, gently, “but they are a rough set and capable of any crime. On our last voyage one of those fellows wanted to visit me during a calm, but I was afraid of him and warned him away. A desperate-looking set they were.”
“Must have frightened you badly,” sneered Richards.
The old skipper looked at the sailor. There was something like sadness in his voice as he answered.
“I’m of a somewhat timid nature, but cannot help it. I cannot stand seeing poor coloured folk made to suffer. You will know me better after you have sailed with me for a voyage.”