Shreve nodded affirmation. Then he turned to the writing guy,
and courteously salved the chap's self-esteem.

"Small wonder you overlooked her build; it takes a sailor's eye for
such things. And really, your description strikes home to me. We are
all workhorses, are we not, we of the sea? And time breaks down us
all, man and ship." The Old Man was staring at the hulk, and his voice
was sorrowful. "Aye, but time has used her cruelly! What a pity--she
was so bonny!"

The writing guy perked up at this. "Well, you know, I see her through
a layman's eyes," he explained. "And she does look so old, and dirty,
and commonplace----"

Briggs snorted, and the Captain hastened to continue, cutting off the
mate's hard words. "Oh, yes, she looks old and dirty--no mistake. But
time was when no ship afloat could match her for either looks or speed.
Aye, she was a beauty. Remember how she looked in the old days,
Briggs?"

Briggs did. He emphatically blasted his eyes to the effect that he
remembered very well the _Golden Bough_ in the days of her glory, the
days when she was no workhorse, but a double-planked racehorse of the
seas, as anyone but a lubber could see she had once been, just by
looking at her. Yes, blast his eyes, he remembered her. He remembered
one time running the Easting down in the _Josiah T. Flynn_, a smart
ship, with a reputation, and they were cracking on as they would never
dare crack, on in these degenerate days, when, blast his eyes, the
_Golden Bough_ came up on them, and passed, and ran away from the poor
old _Flynn_, and Yankee Swope had stood on his poopdeck at the passing,
and waved a hawser-end at the Old Man of the _Flynn_, asking if he
wanted a tow. "And then we caught hell," commented Mr. Briggs. Aye,
he should say he did remember the _Golden Bough_. But he had never
sailed in her.

"And she looks commonplace enough," continued Captain Shreve,
"providing you know nothing of her history. But she does not look
commonplace to Briggs or me. I suppose we regard her through the mist
of memory--we see the tall, beautiful ship that was. We know the
record of that ship. Aye, lad, and if those sorry-looking timbers
yonder could talk, you would not have to make the voyage with us in
order to get a taste of the salt. You'd get real local color
there--you'd hear of many a wild ocean race, of smashed records, or
shanghaied crews and mutinies. Yes, and you'd get, perhaps, some of
that par