'Are you going to take charge of a ship?' said I.
'I'm going to seek a job,' he answered.
'Were you long at sea, captain?'
'Ay, was I? Since I was twelve. D'ee ken,' said he, broadening his accent for my entertainment, 'that I'm the original laddie of this yarn: A boy was holding a candle in the North Sea for the skipper whilst he overhauled his chart. "Eh, sir," says the boy, "if they did but ken war we was at home!" "If we kenned oursells," says the skipper, "I'd ne'er heed a dam!"'
'You seem to know a good deal about the ice,' said I.
'I knew too much about most things,' he answered, puffing. 'If you was to turn to and pump out my mind, more'd come up than what the poets call sparkling brine.'
He looked to right and left to observe if he was overheard, and I guessed he was a wag who liked the laughter of many.
Just then four Italian emigrants began to sing together on the forecastle; their voices swelled in a pleasing concert; the rude harmonies of the engine-room, dim and deep, as interpretable as human voices, so articulate was the metallic clangour, mingled with the music the singers made without vexing the ear.
I listened, then looked at Captain Robson, whose round face was staring deafly seawards.