He was
an excellent needleman and washerman, and a very good sailor. Standing
in this peculiar relation to me, he considered himself privileged to open
his mind on the matter one evening when he brought back to my cabin three
clean and neatly folded shirts. He was profoundly pained. He said:
"What a ship's company! Never seen such a crowd! Liars, cheats,
thieves. . . "
It was a needlessly jaundiced view. There were in that ship's company
three or four fellows who dealt in tall yarns, and I knew that on the
passage out there had been a dispute over a game in the foc'sle once or
twice of a rather acute kind, so that all card-playing had to be
abandoned. In regard to thieves, as we know, there was only one, and he,
I am convinced, came out of his reserve to perform an exploit rather than
to commit a crime. But my black-bearded friend's indignation had its
special morality, for he added, with a burst of passion: "And on board
our ship, too--a ship like this. . ."
Therein lies the secret of the seamen's special character as a body. The
ship, this ship, our ship, the ship we serve, is the moral symbol of our
life.
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