I remained silent, for I couldn’t quite catch the drift of his meaning.
“Not as a passenger,” he went on, “but as third mate.” Then he was silent for a moment as he saw I was listening.
“I see,” I answered, but I really saw nothing except the old man’s keen gray eyes regarding me curiously from over the rim of his eye-glasses. I am an old sea-dog of the tight-jawed breed, and I’ve always found that when a man wishes to learn something it is best to let the man imparting the knowledge do the talking.
“The young man has not been in good health for some time past and we have thought it advisable that he should take a long sea-voyage on which he can get plenty of exercise and fresh air. He has expressed a preference to go with you on the Arrow.”
“I see,” I answered again, for although not of a suspicious nature, I was beginning to see that there was something unhealthy about the business. I did not feel greatly flattered by the preference bestowed upon me, so I kept quiet after admitting that I saw.
My manner was not lost upon Mr. Ropesend, for he eyed me keenly, and continued:
“Mr. Gore, this young man’s father was my earliest friend. I looked upon him as I would look upon my own brother, and I look upon his child as I would look upon—well, say my own—had I ever married and had one—you understand?”
I bowed.
“And as he will have to be in your watch, I want you to take every care of him that you possibly can, without, of course, interfering with the ship’s duties or discipline. He will not be one who will try to shirk hard work.” He said this with great warmth, and after pausing a moment to allow his words to have their effect, continued:
“I know that your misfortunes have soured your temper to a certain extent—No, no, don’t misunderstand me,” he put in, hastily, as he saw my look. “I know that you are only human and what you have been through would have ruined most men. At the same time you have a great deal to be thankful for.”