“A divil av a trick t’play on an honest captain an’ thrue Christian gentleman,” muttered O’Toole, who had watched the affair with a broad smile on his face.
But Captain Crojack was not a true Christian gentleman. He was a plain honest sailor, so he bawled out a variety of adjectives, such as no gentleman would ever use, and called vainly for the crowd on the wharf to stop his man. Then coming to the sensible conclusion that it would be better to keep on than lose valuable time hunting the fellow, he signalled to the steamer to go ahead. I really believe he forgave the poor fellow in the bottom of his heart.
The old skipper was not much of a gentleman, because he was something of a Christian, and he was a poor Christian because he was something of a gentleman. A man will find it hard to be both; for a gentleman must lie and play the hypocrite often in order to be civil.
As I was saying, we towed down the beautiful bay and through the great fleet of vessels lying at anchor. Through the Narrows and into the lower harbour, where we met the clipper Washington just coming into port. I recognized old Captain Foregaff as he sprang upon her poop-rail and waved his hand to us. Then Miss Waters felt in her pocket and produced a handkerchief and waved it frantically as the homeward bound ship drifted past with the tide.
Soon the low land of the Hook lay on our starboard beam and the swell of the Western Ocean was felt under the clipper’s forefoot. The topsail yards were hoisted and the sails sheeted home and in a few minutes the bar was crossed.
A good breeze blew from the westward and, as the tug let go the tow-line, we backed the mainyards to put off the pilot. Then, clapping on every rag that would draw, we headed away on our course a little to the southward of east.
CHAPTER III.
There is an old saying, rhymed into an old saw, written by some one familiar with life at sea:
“Six days shalt thou labour
An’ do all ye are able,
The seventh thou shalt NOT rest
But holystone the deck—
An’ scrape the cable.”
It is comprehensive of a sailor’s life, for there is little time for play for a man at sea. But sailors are not going to the dogs. The man who has made a voyage and listened to some old grumbling seaman who has seen his best days will doubtless come ashore and write how seamen are no longer what they used to be, but the man who knows the sea knows better. The seagoing portion of the human race has not retrograded any more than the land portion. There are stout men yet, as stout and strong as any that ever trod the slanting deck of the old-time packet, and they are just as intelligent, and they are just as able.