"I ask your pardon, sir?"

"Is the fool deaf? Can ye use a needle and thread?"

"After a rough fashion, sir, and I can knit a bit."

"Mr. Waters?"

A man with a gold band round his cap stepped forward and touched it.

"Take him to the sail-maker. He can help to patch the old fore-stay-sail
on the forecastle. And you can--"

The rest of the order was in a low voice, but Mr. Waters saluted again
and replied, "Yes, sir."

The captain saluted Mr. Waters, and then as Alister moved off, he said,
"You're not sick, I see. Have you sailed before?"

"From Scotland, sir."

Whether, being a Scotchman himself, the tones of Alister's voice, as it
lingered on the word "Scotland," touched a soft corner in the captain's
soul, or whether the blue eyes met with an involuntary feeling of
kinship, or whether the captain was merely struck by Alister's
powerful-looking frame, and thought he might be very useful when he was
better fed, I do not know; but I feel sure that as he returned my new
comrade's salute, he did so in a softened humour. Perhaps this made him
doubly rough to me, and I have no doubt I looked as miserable an object
as one could (not) wish to see.