ays
they, 'will nose out them swiles.' An' Small Sam Small done it every
spring o' the year. No clothes off for Small Sam Small! 'Twas tramp
the deck, night an' day. 'Twas 'How's the weather?' at midnight an'
noon. 'Twas the crow's-nest at dawn. 'Twas squintin' little green eyes
glued t' the glass the day long. An' 'twas 'Does you see un, lads?'
forever an' all; an' 'twas '_Damme, where's that fat?_' But 'twas now
Sam Small's last v'yage, says he; he'd settle down when he made port
again, an' live free an' easy in his old age, with a good fire t' warm
his bones, an' a bottle at his elbow for reasonable sippin' of a cold
night. A man should loosen up in his old age, says he; an' God
grantin' him bloody decks an' a profitable slaughter, that v'yage,
he'd settle down for good an' never leave port again. He was tired,
says he; he was old--an' he was all tired out--and he'd use the
comfort he'd earned in all them years o' labor an' savin'. Wasn't so
much in life, after all, for a old man like him, says he, except a
fireside chair, or a seat in the sunlight, with a nip o' the best
Jamaica, watered t' the taste.

"'You come along o' me as mate, Tumm,' says he, 'an' I'll fill your
pocket.'

"'I'm not averse t' cash,' says I.

"'These here ol' bones creaks out t' the ice for _swiles_,' says he,
'an' not for the pleasures o' cruisin'.'

"'I'll ship, Skipper Sammy,' says I. 'I'll ship with the skipper that
gets the fat.'

"'You hails from Chain Tickle?' says he.

"'I does.'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'I'm a old man, an' I'm downcast in these last days;
an' I been 'lowin', somehow, o' late, that a dash o' young blood in my
whereabouts might cheer me up. I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'you don't know
a likely lad t' take along t' the ice an' break in for his own good?
Fifteen years or so? I'd berth un well aboard the _Bloodhound_.'

"'I does,' says I.

"'You might fetch un,' says he; 'nothin' like young blood t' cheer the
aged.'

"'I'll fetch un quick enough, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'if you'll stand
by my choice.'

"'As I knowed you would, Tumm,' says he, 'you takes me cleverly.'

"It wasn't long after that afore a young lad I knowed in Chain Tickle
come shoutin' down t' St. John's. A likely lad, too: blue-eyed,
tow-headed, an' merry--the likes of his mother, a widow. No liar, no
coward, no pinch-a-penny: a fair, frank-eyed, lovable little
rascal--a forgiven young scapegrace--with no mind beyond the love an'
livin' jollity o' the