"I don't
wish to accuse Cap'n Harris of taking another man's true story an'
spoiling it; he's got a bad memory, that's all. Fust of all, he forgets
he ever heard the yarn; secondly, he goes and spoils it."
I gave a sympathetic murmur. Harris was as truthful an old man as ever
breathed, but his tales were terribly restricted by this circumstance,
whereas Bill's were limited by nothing but his own imagination.
"It was about fifteen years ago now," began Bill, getting the quid into
a bye-way of his cheek, where it would not impede his utterance "I was
A. B. on the Swallow, a barque, trading wherever we could pick up stuff.
On this v'y'ge we was bound from London to Jamaica with a general cargo.
"The start of that v'y'ge was excellent. We was towed out of the St.
Katherine's Docks here, to the Nore, an' the tug left us to a stiff
breeze, which fairly raced us down Channel and out into the Atlantic.
Everybody was saying what a fine v'y'ge we was having, an' what quick
time we should make, an' the fust mate was in such a lovely temper that
you might do anything with him a'most.
"We was about ten days out, an' still slipping along in this spanking
way, when all of a sudden things changed. I was at the wheel with the
second mate one night, when the skipper, whose name was Brown, came up
from below in a uneasy sort o' fashion, and stood looking at us for some
time without speaking.
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