There was much chat in the smoking-cabin on the upper deck after luncheon to-day, mostly whaler yarns from those old sea-captains.  Captain Tom Bowling was garrulous.  He had that garrulous attention to minor detail which is born of secluded farm life or life at sea on long voyages, where there is little to do and time no object.  He would sail along till he was right in the most exciting part of a yarn, and then say, “Well, as I was saying, the rudder was fouled, ship driving before the gale, head-on, straight for the iceberg, all hands holding their breath, turned to stone, top-hamper giving ’way, sails blown to ribbons, first one stick going, then another, boom! smash! crash! duck your head and stand from 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.