his otherwise
grim and Fejee air.

"I should think rings would be somewhat inconvenient at sea," resumed
Israel. "On my first voyage to the West Indies, I wore a girl's ring on
my middle finger here, and it wasn't long before, what with hauling wet
ropes, and what not, it got a kind of grown down into the flesh, and
pained me very bad, let me tell you, it hugged the finger so."

"And did the girl grow as close to your heart, lad?"

"Ah, Captain, girls grow themselves off quicker than we grow them on."

"Some experience with the countesses as well as myself, eh? But the
story; wave your yellow mane, my lion--the story."

So Israel went on and told the story in all particulars.

At its conclusion Captain Paul eyed him very earnestly. His wild, lonely
heart, incapable of sympathizing with cuddled natures made humdrum by
long exemption from pain, was yet drawn towards a being, who in
desperation of friendlessness, something like his own, had so fiercely
waged battle against tyrannical odds.

"Did you go to sea young, lad?"

"Yes, pretty young."

"I went at twelve, from Whitehaven. Only so high," raising his hand some
four feet from the deck. "I was so small, and looked so queer in my
little blue jacket, that they called me the monkey. They'll call me
something else before long. Did you ever sail out of Whitehaven?"

"No, Captain."

"If you had, you'd have heard sad stories about me. To this hour they
say there that I--bloodthirsty, coward dog that I am--flogged a sailor,
one Mungo Maxwell, to death. It's a lie, by Heaven! I flogged him, for
he was a mutinous scamp. But he died naturally, some time afterwards,
and on board another ship. But why talk? They didn't believe the
affidavits of others taken before London courts, triumphantly acquitting
me; how then will they credit _my_ interested words? If slander, however
much a lie, once gets hold of a man, it will stick closer than fair
fame, as black pitch sticks closer than white cream. But let 'em
slander. I will give the slanderers matter for curses. When last I left
Whitehaven, I swore never again to set foot on her pier, except, like
Caesar, at Sandwich, as a foreign invader. Spring under me, good ship;
on you I bound to my vengeance!"

Men with poignant feelings, buried under an air of care-free self
command, are never proof to the sudden incitements of passion. Though
in the main they may control themselves, yet if they but once permit the
smallest vent,