“Yes,” I answered, “only most of them are a good deal dirtier and worse ventilated. When I first went to sea, the fo’castle was always below, ’tween decks, and not a big, airy room, with windows in it, like the one we’ve just left. I remember, on the old clipper Mohawk, we would have thought a fo’castle like this one equal to the captain’s cabin.”
She was silent while we walked aft, and I supposed she was thinking of the sailor forward. Just as we gained the poop she turned her head and looked up at me, saying:
“And you were a sailor once and had to live in a place like that?”
“I am a sailor yet, I believe, and I will probably never be anything else, except a fool, also,” I answered; “but as for living in places like our fo’castle, I must confess that I’ve spent at least ten years in them.”
She let go my arm and, I fancied, gave a hopeless little sigh.
“I think I’d rather be a cow and live in a comfortable barn,” she remarked, rather drily.
“No objection on my part,” I answered, quickly.
Then she thanked me for going with her, and joined the skipper, who had been standing near the quarter-rail watching us intently. He saw her safely aft to the companionway and then returned to where I stood. He was silent for some time and then looked at me and smiled. I have always believed the old skipper was something of a mind-reader.
“Women are queer things,” he said.
I said nothing, but looked an affirmative answer.