rt it 's easier.
Only, I'm afraid your three-decker's apprenticeship 'll stand in your
way.'

'Greek 's to be done for me; I can pay clever gentlemen for doing Greek
for me,' said the captain. 'The knowledge and the love of virtue I must
do for myself; and not to be wrecked, I must do it early.'

'Well, that's neither learning nor human nature,' said I.

'It's the knowledge o' the right rules for human nature, my lad.'

'Would you kidnap youngsters to serve in your ship, captain?'

'I'd bless the wind that blew them there, foul or not, my lad.'

'And there they'd stick when you had them, captain?'

'I'd think it was the Lord's will they should stick there awhile, my
lad--yes.'

'And what of their parents?'

'Youngsters out like gossamers on a wind, their parents are where they
sow themselves, my lad.'

'I call that hard on the real parents, Captain Welsh,' said Temple.

'It's harder on Providence when parents breed that kind o' light
creature, my lad.'

We were all getting excited, talking our best, such as it was;
the captain leaning over his side of the table, clasping his hands
unintentionally preacher-like; we on our side supporting our chins
on our fists, quick to be at him. Temple was brilliant; he wanted to
convert the captain, and avowed it.

'For,' said he, 'you're not like one of those tract-fellows. You're a
man we can respect, a good seaman, master of your ship, and hearty, and
no mewing sanctimoniousness, and we can see and excuse your mistake as
to us two; but now, there's my father at home--he's a good man, but he
's a man of the world, and reads his classics and his Bible. He's none
the worse for it, I assure you.'

'Where was his son the night of the fog?' said the captain.

'Well, he happened to be out in it.'

'Where'd he be now but for one o' my men?'

'Who can answer that, Captain Welsh?'

'I can, my lad-stewing in an ante-room of hell-gates, I verily believe.'

Temple sighed at the captain's infatuation, and said, 'I'll tell you
of a fellow at our school named Drew; he was old Rippenger's best
theological scholar--always got the prize for theology. Well, he was a
confirmed sneak. I've taken him into a corner and described the torments
of dying to him, and his look was disgusting--he broke out in a clammy
sweat. "Don't, don't!" he'd cry. "You're just the fellow to suffer
intensely," I told him. And what was his idea of escaping it? Why, by
learning the whole of Deuteronomy an