Ah, yes, and he was the man who could properly do it.

Well, that was the way that writer talked. He talked so steadily
nobody could slide a word in edgeways. Yet he said he wanted
information. We wondered. If the ability to deliver an unending
monologue, consisting chiefly of the ninth letter in the alphabet, is
any sign of lung power, that chap didn't need any cod-liver oil or sea
air. He could have given up writing, and still have made a good living
ashore as a blacksmith's bellows! And as for the local color and
information--well, he blinked through his black rimmed glasses at our
immaculate decks, and said it was a pity they built ships for use and
not for looks nowadays, and went on talking about himself, and what he
could do with "King" Waldon.

Briggs, the mate, confided to me in a soft aside that the chap was
making the voyage because he knew he had an audience which couldn't
escape--unless it jumped over the side. Captain Shreve didn't confide;
his face kept its accustomed expression of serenity, and he made no
attempt to stem the author's flood of words. I was somewhat surprised
by this meekness, for our Old Man is a great hand to puncture a
windbag; but then, I reflected, the writing guy, being a passenger, was
in the nature of a guest on board, and, according to Captain Shreve's
code, a man to be humored.

We lay in the Stream, with a half dozen hours to pass ere we proceeded
to sea. It was Sunday, so we were idle, the four of us lounging on the
lower bridge deck--the Captain, Briggs, myself, and this human
phonograph. It was a pleasant day, and we would have enjoyed the loaf
in the warm afternoon sunshine, had it not been for the unending drivel
of the passenger. I enjoyed it anyway, for even though the ears be