I was buttoning up my oilskins while I spoke, and Trunnell smiled a queer bit of a smile, which finally spread over his bearded face and crinkled up the corners of his little eyes into a network of lines and wrinkles.  “I heard the outfly,” said he, “and I was only joking ye about the canvas.  It’s a quare world.  Ye wouldn’t think it, but if ye want to see a true picture of responsibility a-restin’ heavy like upon the digestion of a man, ye’ll do well to take a good look at the old man a-standin’ there on the poop.  ‘What for?’ says you; ‘God knows,’ says me; but there he is, without a drop o’ licker or nothin’ in him since he heard ye bellow fer all hands.”

“I should think he’d feel a little upset after the way he caught her,” I answered; “he probably has the owners’ interests a little at heart.”

But Trunnell shook his head until the water flew around.

“Ye’re off agin, me son.  It ain’t that at all.  That man don’t care a whoop for all the owners livin’.  Not he.  Sink me, Rolling, I got a big head, but nothin’ much in it; in spite o’ this, though, I knows a thing or two when I sees it.  That man has some other object in bein’ nervous about this here hooker besides owners.  Don’t ask me what it is, ’cause I don’t know.  But I knows what it ain’t.”

“The whole outfit is queer,” I answered, “and the sooner I get out of her, the better satisfied I’ll be.  No decent sailor would ship in the craft if he could help it.”

Trunnell gave me a queer look.  Then he saw I meant no offence and shook his great head again.

“Did it ever occur to ye that ye had a duty to do in the world beside huntin’ soft jobs?”

“Certainly not that of hunting hard ones,” I answered, fastening my belt.

Trunnell’s face underwent a change.  He was serious and waited until I had strapped my sou’wester under my chin before saying anything.

“Mebbe I’m wrong, an’ mebbe I ain’t,” he said.  “But I believes a man has duties to stick to while he’s on watch above water.  One of these is not to turn tail and scud away, a-showin’ your stern to every hard thing as comes along.  No, sir, when ye runs into a hard gang like some o’ these here aboard this hooker, stick to her, says me.  If every man who’s honest should turn his stern to a wessel that’s got a bad name, what would happen to her?  Why, any suckin’ swab of a cabin boy kin tell that she’d get worse an’ worse with the bad ones what would take your place.  Ain’t that reason?  There’s got to be some men to man a ship, an’ if no honest ones will, then the owners can’t do less than hire raskils.  Ye can’t sink a ship just because things have happened aboard her.  Oh, Lord, no.  Think a bit, Rolling, an’ tell me if ye ain’t blamed glad ye ware here, an’ bein’ here, ye must ‘a’ saved some poor devil of a sailor from getting killed this voyage?”

“I’m blamed sorry I ever—­”

“Well, now, suppose’n I had a been ashore the day ye had the fracas on the main deck.  Where’d ye been now, hey?  A hunderd fathom deep, sure as Andrews is aboard this here ship, if I knows anything o’ his ways, an’ I’ve sailed two voyages with him afore.  No, man; brace up and do yer dooty as ye may.  If every good man was to stay out of bad ships, they’d get so the devil himself would be afeard to go to sea in them.”