“That's why you have been making a holy show of her, playing ring around a rosy, hey?”
“But tell me, isn't this the old shallop that was a privateer in the war of eighteen twelve?”
“Nobody aboard here has ever said she wasn't.”
“Well, sir, may we not come on board and look her over?”
“No sir, you can't.”
“Now, look here, captain—”
“I'm looking!” declared the master of the Polly in ominous tones.
“We don't mean to annoy you, captain.”
“Folks who don't know any better do a lot of things without meaning to.”
Captain Candage regularly entertained a sea-toiler's resentment for men who used the ocean as a mere playground. But more especially, during those later days, his general temper was touchy in regard to dapper young men, for he had faced a problem of the home which had tried his soul. He felt an unreasoning choler rising in him in respect to these chaps, who seemed to have no troubles of their own.
“I am a writer,” explained the other. “If I may be allowed on board I'll take a few pictures and—”
“And make fun of me and my bo't by putting a piece in the paper to tickle city dudes. Fend off!” he commanded, noticing that the tender was drifting toward the schooner's side and that one of the crew had set a boat-hook against the main chain-plate.
“Don't bother with the old crab,” advised the owner, sourly.
But the other persisted, courteously, even humbly. “I am afraid you do not understand me, captain. I would as soon make jest of my mother as of this noble old relic.”
“Go ahead! Call it names!”
“I am taking off my hat to it,” he declared, whipping his cap from his head. “My father's grandfather was in the war of eighteen twelve. I want to honor this old patriot here with the best tribute my pen can pay. If you will
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