The idea that I had formed was of a close-packed mass of seaweed, through which a ship could no more force her way than she could through an enormous haystack. The real thing is very different. I have never been any closer to the middle than I was that day in the Clearchus, and so I do not know, from the evidence of my own senses, how closely packed the weed may be; but it is not like a stack of hay at all. It consists of separate plants, or pieces of a plant, not above a foot across, every plant floating by itself. A ship would probably have no great trouble in going through what looked like a solid mass of floating weed, each separate plant giving to her passage with but little more resistance than the water.
Peter got a bucketful of water, with a plant bearing its strange freight of life: crabs, sea-horses, pipe-fish, shrimp, and slugs.
“Aye, Timmie,” he said as he dropped the bucket over the side, “it ’s sargasso, and that means seaweed in some outlandish lingo. Why they can’t say seaweed when they mean seaweed is beyond me. I ’ve seen it many a time.”
That bucket of water led to a fresh dislike of Mr. Wallet. I had made a hasty examination of it while all hands gathered around me. As soon as I could I grabbed up the bucket and ran aft with it, the water slopping over my legs as I ran. I wanted to study those strange beings at my leisure.
Suddenly remembering duties which, as was quite customary with me, I had forgotten in my interest in other things, I left my precious bucket at the head of the cabin steps, and dashed down to attend to them before anybody found out. The cabin stairs were very steep and narrow, and I ran plump into Mr. Wallet—actually collided with him, and bounced off, eliciting a grunt and a curse. I picked myself up, and he paid no more attention to me, but went on up; and I heard him stumble at the top, and curse again, violently. I chuckled, and thought no more about it; but when I went for my bucket again, I could not find it. Mr. Wallet, coming up, had stumbled over it, and had been angry, and forthwith had emptied it over the side. I would have done him an injury if I could, and I hoped he might run foul of a fighting bull whale. That was the worst thing I could think of.
I was so provoked with Mr. Wallet about the loss of that bucket of water that I pretended not to hear him when he spoke to me as I ran to the forecastle to find Peter. He was most probably only going to give me a reprimand—which I deserved—for leaving the bucket where I did, and when I seemed not to hear him, he did not follow me up. As I ran forward I looked over the expanse of water which glittered in the sun under the brisk southerly breeze, but I saw no patches of weed. As it turned out I did not get another bucket of weed with its strange freight of life, for we had run clear of it. Never in my life have I been able to get another head of sargasso-weed. That was another grudge I bore Mr. Wallet, and still bear him. His feelings toward me were none too friendly.
I plunged below to find Peter Bottom and pour out my grievances. I found him busy, but he stopped his work—I did not even glance at it—and covered it with his hand, and listened until I had emptied my heart. When at last I had come to a hesitating stop he looked up with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Now you ’ve got it all out, Timmie,” he said, “you feel better, I ’ll warrant.”
I did feel better, and not so angry as I had been. But that means nothing. I have always been like that, with a hot heart that cools rapidly, leaving hardly enough resentment for self-respect. I knew it even then for a fault. I hold that anything that is worth such hot anger as I felt demands the keeping of a cold resentment long enough to do some good. A man of any stability would do that, or he would not get so angry. Captain Nelson was a man of stability, and I was already beginning to think Mr. Brown even more so. Mr. Baker was an ignorant man, except in one line, and he was hot-tempered and hard; Mr. Tilton was even more ignorant, although even-tempered enough, quick in decision in matters which he knew about, and vigorous in action; but both Mr. Baker and Mr. Tilton were men of stability. Mr. Snow was regarded as a little busybody; but nowhere was there a good word for Mr. Wallet. His ignorance was stupendous, his talent for failure was great, no dependence could be placed on him in any kind of a pinch, and he had not the courage of a sheep. It was more or less of a mystery how he got his second mate’s berth, and a still greater mystery how he held it.
“That second mate ’s not worth getting mad at,” Peter said, “and he ’ll get his deserts sooner or later. They ’most always do. Now look. I told you I had something to show you, and here it is.”