Myself, I am inclined to think it was
because he knew him to be hunted, knew him to be the object of a
murderous conspiracy, and loathed most thoroughly the vulgar rogue who
was his treacherous enemy. But Captain Kettle scouts the idea that he
was stirred by any such feeble, womanish motives. Kettle was a poet
himself, and with the kinship of species he felt the poetic fire glowing
out from the person of this Mr. Hamilton. At least, so he says; and if
he has deceived himself on the matter, which, from an outsider's point
of view, seems likely, I am sure the error is quite unconscious. The
little sailor may have his faults, as the index of these pages has
shown; but untruthfulness has never been set down to his tally, and I am
not going to accuse him of it now.
Still, it is a sure thing that talk on the subject of verse making did
not come at once. Kettle was immensely sensitive about his
accomplishment, and had writhed under brutal scoffs and polished
ridicule at his poetry more times than he cared to count. With
passengers especially he kept it scrupulously in the background, even as
he did his talent for making sweet music on the accordion.
But somehow he and Hamilton, after a few days' acquaintance, seemed to
glide into the subject imperceptibly.
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