"You had a large interest in her, I believe," said the Manager slowly, "and I recollect, now, you lost all in her——"
"The light was not so good as it is now," quickly put in the old seaman. "It used to show only in clear weather—and it's almost always clear through the passage—I remember how the passengers used to be glad when we entered the passage coming up from Cuba in the old Panama ships—rough in the tumble off Maysi when the wind holds nor'east for a spell."
The Manager was gazing at the old skipper strangely. Then he suddenly turned and started to discuss other matters with his guests. The dinner went along without incident and afterward we arose to go to the smoking-room for our cigars.
"Come along with me, Cone," said the Manager, "I have a new orchid I picked up I want to show you; you always liked flowers, you know." Afterward I passed them and overheard the Manager saying in a low tone—"Well, you always had a hell of a reputation, Cone, anyway, but under the circumstances—well, there might be some sort of justification. You are too full of that damned sentiment for any business whatever. Still, I'll admit that it isn't so much what a man does that matters—that is, it doesn't matter so much as how it is done—and who does it."
And so this was Cone? This was the master who had earned a reputation for some very queer things as seamen see them. I remember the old days, the words of poor old Simpson who had long gone to the port of missing ships. Sentimental Captain Cone, stout, grizzled, bronzed, the man who lost his hand holding to the picture of a wife who had been false to him and who had accused him of many things too hard to print. It was strange.
I suddenly felt I would like to see Simpson, to acknowledge he was not so far wrong after all.
"The judgment of man is not good," I said in answer to some question relative to nothing concerning Cone, and with this platitude upon my lips I went home.