The wind, being in that cold quarter the north-west, blew nearly in our
faces as we went. It was the month of June; the grass was all white with
daisies, and the trees with blossom; but, to judge by our blue nails
and aching wrists, the time might have been winter and the whiteness a
December frost.

Uncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from side to side like an
old ploughman coming home from work. He never said a word the whole
way; and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He told me his name was
Ransome, and that he had followed the sea since he was nine, but could
not say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. He showed me
tattoo marks, baring his breast in the teeth of the wind and in spite
of my remonstrances, for I thought it was enough to kill him; he swore
horribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly schoolboy than a
man; and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done: stealthy
thefts, false accusations, ay, and even murder; but all with such a
dearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger
in the delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him.

I asked him of the brig (which he declared was the finest ship that
sailed) and of Captain Hoseason, in whose praises he was equally loud.
Heasyoasy (for so he still named the skipper) was a man, by his account,
that minded for nothing either in heaven or earth; one that, as people
said, would "crack on all sail into the day of judgment;" rough, fierce,
unscrupulous, and brutal; and all this my poor cabin-boy had taught
himself to admire as something seamanlike and manly. He would only admit
one flaw in his idol. "He ain't no seaman," he admitted. "That's Mr.
Shuan that navigates the brig; he's the finest seaman in the trade, only
for drink; and I tell you I believe it! Why, look'ere;" and turning down
his stocking he showed me a great, raw, red wound that made my blood run