regarded you,
and only his whiskers moved in silent indifference (he chewed), as
though you were wasting the time of a man and an artist. Those images of
his were all of women. He would make no figure-head for a ship bearing
the name of a man, though it were that of a Greek hero. And, of course,
you dare not even think of the trousered legs of a modern man stuck each
side of a ship's prow, boots and all; but the drapery of a woman flows
with grace there. She would look indeed its vigilant guardian spirit. It
would be pleasing to write of some of the more famous of those idols, as
I remember them in repose, above the quays of the docks.

Here we were joined by some young men who knew Uncle Dave. They were
looking for a ship. But Uncle continued to tell me of the merits of his
friend the maker of figure-heads. A stoker became a trifle irritated.
"Well, what's the good of 'em, anyway?" he interjected. "Lumber, I call
'em. They can't be carried on straight stems, and clipper-bows aren't
wanted these days, wasting good metal. Why, even Thompson's White Star
liners have chucked that sort of truck. They're not built like it now.
What's the good of figger-'eds?"

This youth's casual blasphemy in the presence of Uncle Dave (who once
was bo'sun of a China clipper), extolling as he did his age of mere
machines against the virtues of an age when ships were expected to look
good as well as do good things, made us shrink in anticipation of the
storm. For Uncle Dave has a habit of listening to a talk about ships in a
deliberate and contemptuous silence, with nothing to show of his inward
heat but a baleful light in the eye. He does not like steamers. He does
not think steamer-men are seamen. He declares they can never be seamen.
And now we waited, dreading that his anger, when it burst, would be quite
incoherent with force. There was really something of hatred in his look
as he gazed at the youngster, his mouth a little open, his hand holding
his trembling pipe just away from his mouth, which had forgotten it. The
old sailor bent forward, screwing his eyes at this young man as though
trying to believe it was real.

An older hand interposed. "Ah, come away now! I've heard chaps make game
of figger-'eds, an' call 'em superstition. But I say let such things
alone. I know things that's happened to funny fellows through making game
of figger-'eds. There was the _Barbadian Lass_. She was a brigantine.
She used to run to Trinidad. There wa