you
fust. When I was a boy there was a man in our town name of Nickerson
Cummin's. He was mate of a ship and smart as a red pepper poultice on
a skinned heel. He was a great churchgoer when he was ashore and always
preachin' brotherly love and kindness and pattin' us little shavers on
the head, and so on. Most of the grown folks thought he was a sort of
saint, and I thought he was more than that. I'd have worshiped him,
I cal'late, if my Methodist trainin' would have allowed me to worship
anybody who wa'n't named in Scriptur'. If there'd been an apostle or a
prophet christened Nickerson I'd have fell on my knees to this
Cummin's man, sure. So, when I went to sea as a cabin boy, a tow-headed
snub-nosed little chap of fourteen, I was as happy as a clam at
highwater 'cause I was goin' in the ship he was mate of."

He paused. There was a frown on his face, and his lower jaw was thrust
forward grimly.

"Well?" inquired Sylvester. "What happened?"

"Hey? Oh, excuse me. When I get to thinkin' of that v'yage I simmer
inside, like a teakettle on a hot stove. The second day out--seasick and
homesick and so miserable I wished I could die all at once instead of
by lingerin' spasms--I dropped a dish on the cabin floor and broke it.
Cummin's was alone with me, eatin' his dinner; and he jumped out of
his chair when I stooped to pick up the pieces and kicked me under the
table. When I crawled out, he kicked me again and kept it up. When his
foot got tired he used his fist. 'There!' says he between his teeth, 'I
cal'late that'll learn you that crockery costs money.'

"It did. I never broke anything else aboard that ship. Cummin's was a
bully and a sneak to everybody but the old man, and a toady to him. He
never struck me or anybody else when the skipper was around, but there
was nothin' too mean for him to do when he thought he had a safe chance.
And he took pains to let me know that if I ever told a soul at home
he'd kill me. I'd learned by experience, not only about the price
of crockery, but other things, things that a youngster ought not to
learn--how to hate a man so that you can wait years to get even with
him, for one. I'm sorry I learned that, and," dryly, "so was Cummin's,
later. But I did learn, once and for all, not to take folks on
trust, nor to size 'em up by their outside, or the noise they make in
prayer-meetin', nor the way they can spread soft soap when they think
it's necessary. I'd learned that, and I'd learned it