or a sight of the minister, who was
holding on to life with a remarkable tenacity. Then he would work his
way to Boston, and sign again.

Soon he became a second mate, but never a first, nor a captain. His
limitations in arithmetic prevented him from mastering navigation, a
necessary acquirement in a first mate or a skipper, and he remained in
the position he had reached, close to the sailors, but not of them;
sharing their hardships and hard work--for with every reefing or
furling match a second mate must go aloft with the men--standing watch
with them, washing down decks with them, getting drenched to the skin
as often as they, and differing from them only in increase of pay,
cabin food, and a dryer bed to sleep in.

But the dryer bed preserved him from the rheumatism and pulmonary
troubles that kill all sailors who do not drown, the better food
preserved his now iron physique, and the increased pay went into the
bank at home.

And so it continued until he was forty years old, when he went home to
find Minnie a widow with a grown-up son--a fat, weak-chinned,
pale-faced parody on manhood, who never had done a day's work in his
life--a "mamma's boy," who was destined for the ministry.

The dark, seamy-faced man of storm and strength, of stress and strain,
asked her again to be his wife. He asked her as he would have asked a
sailor to sign articles; and the frightened little woman accepted in
about the same spirit that would have influenced the sailor; but she
made one condition--that he would educate her son for the ministry.

He agreed. Her husband had left her almost nothing, while Quinbey had
about ten thousand dollars in the bank. From this he drew the expense
of a four years' course at Andover; and, taking the youth to this
famous theological college, arranged for his stay there in such a
manner as would insure his completing the course--that is, he paid to
the president for everything in advance, including, beside tuition and
board, a moderate amount of spending money, and traveling expense home
and back in vacation.

Then, with Sammy Simpson off his mind for four years at least, Quinbey
returned, and married the woman he loved, feeling that he had now
earned happiness and the right to remain on land--and smoke.

But he was not born for happiness, and did not recognize it when it
came to him. He opened up his house on the hill, fired up the
base-burner, and the two sat around it for a month trying to assim