“Well—yes, sir.” I did not like to tell him of my joy in it, or of my blind fury, but he must have guessed that too.
“I ’m afraid you like to fight.”
“Well—I did n’t know that I liked it, sir.”
“It ’s right that you should like it, in a good cause, but you ’ll have to be on your guard. I like it—or I used to—and it let me in for these.”
With that he opened his shirt, and showed me three old scars almost over his heart. I gaped at them.
“Just escaped with my life,” he added, smiling again. “My ribs stopped it. And I have other scars. And the cause was n’t good. I show you these only to let you know that I know what I am talking about. Be on your guard, boy.”
I was still gaping up at him. “Where?” I asked.
“Batavia,” he answered shortly, “years ago. I had got down pretty far. I don’t want you to. Now let ’s see what bothers you.”
So we took up that question of angles. I had forgotten it.
When we had finished our session, I went on deck. It was nearly five o’clock, or two bells. The breeze had lightened, and the old ship lumbered along lazily, pitching slowly in the swells, and now and then throwing sheets of spray from her forefoot when a sea chanced to break with it. I could not see it, but I could hear it. I stood behind the steersman, and I forgot Batavia and Mr. Brown as I looked out astern over our slowly seething wake in a golden ocean, with crimson lights, and with shadows of dark green and blue in the seas which chased us. The crew were finishing the cleaning up of the ship with ashes from the try-works, and their noise sounded faintly behind me. I lost myself once more.