"Welcome on board, Mr. Blowhard," called out Captain Bilge, stepping
out of the binnacle and shaking hands across the taffrail.

I saw before me a fine sailor-like man of from thirty to sixty,
clean-shaven, except for an enormous pair of whiskers, a heavy beard,
and a thick moustache, powerful in build, and carrying his beam well
aft, in a pair of broad duck trousers across the back of which there
would have been room to write a history of the British Navy.

Beside him were the first and third mates, both of them being quiet
men of poor stature, who looked at Captain Bilge with what seemed to
me an apprehensive expression in their eyes.

The vessel was on the eve of departure. Her deck presented that scene
of bustle and alacrity dear to the sailor's heart. Men were busy
nailing up the masts, hanging the bowsprit over the side, varnishing
the lee-scuppers and pouring hot tar down the companion-way.

Captain Bilge, with a megaphone to his lips, kept calling out to the
men in his rough sailor fashion:

"Now, then, don't over-exert yourselves, gentlemen. Remember, please,
that we have plenty of time. Keep out of the sun as much as you can.
Step carefully in the rigging there, Jones; I fear it's just a little
high for you. Tut, tut, Williams, don't get yourself so dirty with
that tar, you won't look fit to be seen."

I stood leaning over the gaff of the mainsail and thinking--yes,
thinking, dear reader, of my mother. I hope that you will think none