“Do you mean I’m to clean pots and pans
and things?” said Harvey.
“An’ other things. You’ve no
call to shout, young feller.”
“I won’t! My father will give you
enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle”—Harvey
stamped on the deck—“ten times over,
if you take me to New York safe; and—and—you’re
in a hundred and thirty by me, anyhow.”
“Haow?” said Troop, the iron face darkening.
“How? You know how, well enough. On
top of all that, you want me to do menial work”—Harvey
was very proud of that adjective—“till
the Fall. I tell you I will not. You hear?”
Troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest
for a while, as Harvey harangued fiercely all around
him.
“Hsh!” he said at last. “I’m
figurin’ out my responsibilities in my own mind.
It’s a matter o’ jedgment.”
Dan stole up and plucked Harvey by the elbow.
“Don’t go to tamperin’ with Dad
any more,” he pleaded. “You’ve
called him a thief two or three times over, an’
he don’t take that from any livin’ bein’.”
“I won’t!” Harvey almost shrieked,
disregarding the advice, and still Troop meditated.
“Seems kinder unneighbourly,” he said
at last, his eye travelling down to Harvey. “I
— don’t blame you, not a mite, young
feeler, nor you won’t blame me when the bile’s
out o’ your systim. Be sure you sense what
I say? Ten an’ a ha’af fer second
boy on the schooner—an’ all found—fer
to teach you an’ fer the sake o’ your
health. Yes or no?”
“No!” said Harvey. “Take me
back to New York or I’ll see you—”
He did not exactly remember what followed. He
was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that
bled while Troop looked down on him serenely.
“Dan,” he said to his son, “I was
sot agin this young feeler when I first saw him on
account o’ hasty jedgments. Never you be
led astray by hasty jedgments, Dan. Naow I’m
sorry for him, because he’s clear distracted
in his upper works. He ain’t responsible
fer the names he’s give me, nor fer his other
statements—nor fer jumpin’ overboard,
which I’m abaout ha’af convinced he did.
You he gentle with him, Dan, ’r I’ll give
you twice what I’ve give him. Them hemmeridges
clears the head. Let him sluice it off!”
Troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he
and the older men bunked, leaving Dan to comfort the
luckless heir to thirty millions.
“I warned ye,” said Dan, as the drops
fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking.
“Dad ain’t noways hasty, but you fair earned
it. Pshaw! there’s no sense takin’
on so.” Harvey’s shoulders were rising
and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. “I
know the feelin’. First time Dad laid me
out was the last—and that was my first trip.
Makes ye feel sickish an’ lonesome. I know.”
“It does,” moaned Harvey. “That
man’s either crazy or drunk, and—and
I can’t do anything.”
