ependent that--"

"'Zactly what I said, sir. `Maggie,' says I, `that young feller seemed
to be quite independent of fin or tail, for he came right off in the
teeth o' wind and tide--'"

"That's not what I mean either, Captain," interrupted the old gentleman,
with slight impatience. "It's his independent spirit I refer to."

"Oh! I ax your pardon, sir."

"Well, now, listen, and don't interrupt me. But first let me ask, does
he know that I am the owner of the brig that was lost?"

"Yes; he knows that."

"Does he know that I also own the _Walrus_."

"No, I'm pretty sure he don't. Leastwise I didn't tell him, an' there's
nobody else down there as knows anything about you."

"So far, good. Now, Stride, I want you to help me. The young goose is
so proud, or I know not what, that he won't accept any favours or
rewards from me, and I find that he is out of work just now, so I'm
determined to give him something to do in spite of himself. The present
supercargo of the _Walrus_ is a young man who will be pleased to fall in
with anything I propose to him. I mean, therefore, to put him in
another ship and appoint young Brooke to the _Walrus_. Fortunately the
firm of Withers and Company does not reveal my name--I having been
Company originally, though I'm the firm now, so that he won't suspect
anything, and what I want is, that you should do the engaging of him--
being authorised by Withers and Company--you understand?"

"I follow you, sir. But what if he objects?"

"He won't object. I have privately inquired about him. He is anxious
to get employment, and has strong leanings to an adventurous life on the
sea. There's no accounting for taste, Captain!"

"Right you are, sir," replied the Captain, with an approving nod.
"That's what I said only this mornin' to my missus. `Maggie,' says I,
`salt water hasn't a good taste, as even the stoopidest of mortals
knows, but w'en a man has had to lick it off his lips at sea for the
better part of half a century, it's astonishin' how he not only gits
used to it, but even comes to like the taste of it.' `Pooh!' says she,
`don't tell me you likes it, for you don't! It's all a d'lusion an' a
snare. I hates both the taste an' the smell of it.' `Maggie,' says I,
quite solemn-like, `that may be so, but you're not me.' `No, thank
goodness!' says she--which you mustn't suppose, sir, meant as she didn't
like _me_, for she's a true-hearted affectionate creetur--though I say