“Because they are, sir,” he replied. “They’re always reading poetry and that. From all I can make out of it, poetry’s a lot of slush.” “Have you ever read any?” said Perrin. “Who? Me?” said Cammock. “Bless yer, yes. Reams of it. A book of it called _Paradise Lost_. Very religious, some of it. I had enough of poetry with that inside me. I can’t say as I ever read much since.” “Well, captain,” said Margaret, “it hasn’t made you unpractical.” “No, sir,” said the captain. “But then I never give it a chance to. I’ve always had my work to see to.” “And what has been your work? Always with ships?” “No, sir, I was a logwood-cutter one time.” “And what is logwood-cutting like?” “Oh, it’s hard work, sir. Don’t you forget it. You’re chopping all the forenoon, and splitting what you chopped all afternoon, and rolling the pieces to the lagoon all evening. And all night you drink rum and sings. Then up again next morning. Your arms get all bright red from logwood, and you get a taste for sucking the chips. A queer taste.” “And who buys your logwood?” said Margaret. “Who uses it? What’s it used for?” “I don’t rightly know about that, except for dyeing,” said Cammock. “A Captain Brown bought all we cut. But we’d great times along the banks of the lagoon.” “When you say great times,” said Margaret, “what do you mean exactly? What was it, in logwood-cutting, which seems great to you? And was it great to you then, or only now, when you look back on it?” “Did y’ever hear tell of the ‘last ship,’ sir?” said Cammock. With another man he might have resented the continual questioning; but Captain Margaret always made him feel that he, old pirate as he was, had yet, even in spite of, perhaps by reason of, his piracies, a claim upon, an interest for, the man of intellect and the man of culture. “Did y’ever hear tell of the ‘last ship,’ sir?” said Cammock. “No,” said Margaret. “Tell us about the last ship.” “Do you mean Noah’s ark?” said Perrin. “The public-house?” asked the captain. “No. A ship. I’ll tell you of the last ship.” “What has the last ship got to do with the great times on the lagoon?” asked Margaret. “Just this, Captain Margaret. When a growler. A pug, you understand; one of the hands forward there. When a seaman comes aboard a new ship, he always blows at the rate of knots about his last. You’ll never hear of the ship he’s in. No, sir. She’s hungry. Or wet. Or her old man’s a bad one. But so soon as he leaves her. Oh, my love, what a ship she was, my love. Bacon for breakfast; fires to dry your clothes at; prayers and rum of a Sunday forenoon. Everything. That’s what I mean by a last ship. So when I says we’d great times on the lagoon, why, it’s only a way of speaking. I mean as it seems just beautiful, now it’s over. I’ll just trouble you, Mr. Perrin, if there’s any more beer in the jug.”