“Daffy or not,” said I, “I want to know what ship I’m in and where she’s bound,--and I’m going to find out.”
The ugly face of Captain Howard was inscrutable. His glassy eyes like those of some reptile were fixed upon me. His thin, hooked nose appeared like the beak of an albatross. He took off his hat and bowed to me politely, saying:
“It will give me great pleasure to listen to you, sir.” I noticed his poll was as smooth and hairless as the sole of my foot, only a red seam that stretched from the crown to his left ear wrinkled its bronzed roundness.
“Well,” I said, more mildly, “I would like to find out what ship I’m in and where she’s going.”
“Were you drunk, sir, when you came aboard her?” he asked, calmly.
“I was not,” I answered, warmly.
“Were you blind?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, you have permission to look about you, and, if you’re the sailor you claim to be, you will perceive this is a barque. She is called the Gentle Hand. She is bound for the South Atlantic.”
“But I shipped as mate of her,” I stammered.