om under! when up comes Johnny Rogers, capstan-bar in hand,
eyes a-blazing, hair a-flying... no, 'twa'n't Johnny Rogers... lemme see
... seems to me Johnny Rogers wa'n't along that voyage; he was along
one voyage, I know that mighty well, but somehow it seems to me that he
signed the articles for this voyage, but--but--whether he come along or
not, or got left, or something happened--"

And so on and so on till the excitement all cooled down and nobody cared
whether the ship struck the iceberg or not.

In the course of his talk he rambled into a criticism upon New England
degrees of merit in ship building. Said he, "You get a vessel built away
down Maine-way; Bath, for instance; what's the result? First thing you
do, you want to heave her down for repairs--that's the result! Well,
sir, she hain't been hove down a week till you can heave a dog through
her seams. You send that vessel to sea, and what's the result? She wets
her oakum the first trip! Leave it to any man if 'tain't so. Well,
you let our folks build you a vessel--down New Bedford-way. What's the
result? Well, sir, you might take that ship and heave her down, and keep
her hove down six months, and she'll never shed a tear!"

Everybody, landsmen and all, recognized the descriptive neatness of
that figure, and applauded, which greatly pleased the old man. A moment
later, the meek eyes of the pale young fellow heretofore mentioned came
up slowly, rested upon the old man's face a moment, and the meek mouth
began to open.

"Shet your head!" shouted the old mariner.

It was a rather startling surprise to everybody, but it was effective
in the matter of its purpose. So the conversation flowed on instead of
perishing.

There was some talk about the perils of the sea, and a landsman
delivered himself of the customary nonsense about the poor mariner
wandering in far oceans, tempest-tossed, pursued by dangers, every
storm-blast and thunderbolt in the home skies moving the friends by
snug firesides to compassion for that poor mariner, and prayers for his
succor. Captain Bowling put up with this for a while, and then burst out
with a new view of the matter.

"Come, belay there! I have read this kind of rot all my life in poetry
and tales and such-like rubbage. Pity for the poor mariner! sympathy for
the poor mariner! All right enough, but not in the way the poetry puts
it. Pity for the mariner's wife! all right again, but not in the way the
poetry puts it. Look-a h