If you had your ships on the sea by the dozen, you’d bethink you of that?  Bless you, Tom! if you were in Rome you’d do as the Romans do.  You’d have your ledgers, and your children, and your churches and Sunday schools, and freed niggers, and ’lections, and what not, and never stop to think whether the lads that sailed your ships across the world had souls, or not,—­and be a good sort of man too.  That’s the way of the world.  Take it easy, Tom,—­take it easy.

Well, things went along just about so with us till we neared the Cape.  It’s not a pretty place, the Cape, on a winter’s voyage.  I can’t say as I ever was what you may call scar’t after the first time rounding it, but it’s not a pretty place.

I don’t seem to remember much about Kent along there till there come a Friday at the first of December.  It was a still day, with a little haze, like white sand sifted across a sunbeam on a kitchen table.  The lad was quiet-like all day, chasing me about with his eyes.

“Sick?” says I.

“No,” says he.

“Whitmarsh drunk?” says I.

“No,” says he.

A little after dark I was lying on a coil of ropes, napping it.  The boys were having the Bay of Biscay quite lively, and I waked up on the jump in the choruses.  Kent came up while they were telling

    “How she lay
    On that day
  In the Bay of BISCAY O!”

He was not singing.  He sat down beside me, and first I thought I wouldn’t trouble myself about him, and then I thought I would.

So I opens one eye at him encouraging.  He crawls up a little closer to me.  It was rather dark where we sat, with a great greenish shadow dropping from the mainsail.  The wind was up a little, and the light at helm looked flickery and red.

“Jake,” says he all at once, “where’s your mother?”

“In—­heaven!” says I, all taken aback; and if ever I came nigh what you might call a little disrespect to your mother, it was on that occasion, from being taken so aback.

“Oh!” said he.  “Got any women-folks to home that miss you?” asks he, by and by.

Said I, “Shouldn’t wonder.”

After that he sits still a little with his elbows on his knees; then he speers at me sidewise awhile; then said he, “I s’pose I’ve got a mother to home.  I ran away from her.”

This, mind you, is the first time he has ever spoke about his folks since he came aboard.

“She was asleep down in the south chamber,” says he.  “I got out the window.  There was one white shirt she’d made for meetin’ and such.  I’ve never worn it out here.  I hadn’t the heart.  It has a collar and some cuffs, you know.  She had a headache making of it.  She’s been follering me round all day, a sewing on that shirt.  When I come in she would look up bright-like and smiling.  Father’s dead.  There ain’t anybody but me.  All day long she’s been follering of me round.”