trod a foot-rope without
losing head or balance, bent an easing, and could lay hand on any lift,
brace, sheet, or haulyards in the racks. John Paul himself taught me to
tack and wear ship, and MacMuir to stow a headsail. The craft came to
me, as it were, in a hand-gallop.

At first I could make nothing of the crew, not being able to understand a
word of their Scotch; but I remarked, from the first, that they were sour
and sulky, and given to gathering in knots when the captain or MacMuir
had not the deck. For Mr. Lowrie, poor man, they had little respect.
But they plainly feared the first mate, and John Paul most of all. Of me
their suspicion knew no bounds, and they would give me gruff answers, or
none, when I spoke to them. These things roused both curiosity and
foreboding within me.

Many a watch I paced thro' with MacMuir, big and red and kindly, and I
was not long in letting him know of the interest which Captain Paul had
inspired within me. His own feeling for him was little short of
idolatry. I had surmised much as to the rank of life from which the
captain had sprung, but my astonishment was great when I was told that
John Paul was the son of a poor gardener.

"A gardener's son, Mr. MacMuir!" I repeated.

"Just that," said he, solemnly, "a guid man an' haly' was auld Paul.
Unco puir, by reason o' seven bairns. I kennt the daddie weel. I mak
sma' doubt the captain'll tak ye hame wi' him, syne the mither an'
sisters still be i' the cot i' Mr. Craik's croft."

"Tell me, MacMuir," said I, "is not the captain in some trouble?"

For I knew that something, whatever it was, hung heavy on John Paul's
mind as we drew nearer Scotland. At times his brow would cloud and he
would fall silent in the midst of a jest. And that night, with the stars
jumping and the air biting cold (for we were up in the 40's), and the
John wish-washing through the seas at three leagues the hour, MacMuir
told me the story of Mungo Maxwell. You may read it for yourselves, my
dears, in the life of John Paul Jones.

"Wae's me!" he said, with a heave of his big chest, "I reca' as yestreen
the night Maxwell cam aboord. The sun gaed loon a' bluidy, an' belyve
the morn rose unco mirk an' dreary, wi' bullers (rollers) frae the west
like muckle sowthers (soldiers) wi' white plumes. I tauld the captain
'twas a' the faut o' Maxwell. I ne'er cad bide the blellum. Dour an'
din he was, wi' ae girn like th' auld hornie. But the captain wadna
hark to my r