“So that’s the last ship, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret. “Well, and now tell us what seems great to you, when you think of--of your last ship, in the lagoon, as you call it.” Captain Cammock looked at Perrin, who seldom spoke at meals, perhaps because his intellect was too feeble to allow him to do more than one thing at a time. Perrin, who hated to be looked at when he was eating, from some shy belief that no one looked at him save with a desire to laugh, gulped what he had in his mouth at the moment, choked, and hid his confusion in his tankard. Captain Cammock did the same, lest he should appear rude. “Now that’s no easy question, Captain Margaret,” he said. “It wasn’t great, now I come to think of it. It was hard work. As hard as shovelling coal. And hot. Oh, it’s hot in them lagoons. Sometimes our shirts would be wringing wet with perspiration. And often we were up to our knees in mud, where we worked, and little red devils biting us, besides mosquitoes. And there were thorns on the logwood; spikes as sharp as stings.” “What were your amusements?” said Margaret. “Oh, as to them,” replied the captain. “We’d go hunt a wild cow on Saturdays. Or perhaps fish. Or sometimes we’d go a lot of us among the Indians, to a paw-waw. And then ships come. We’d great times when ships come. In the moonlight. We’d sing and drink rum. And firing off pistols and cheering. Oh, we’d great times.” “Why don’t you go back to it?” asked Captain Margaret. “You don’t go back to it. Why not?” “It wouldn’t be the same,” said Cammock, as he prepared his morning’s pipe. “The men I knowed are gone. They’d have new ways, the new lot. Besides, that sort of thing only goes when you’re young. When you get the salt in your bones, you find the young devils don’t like having you around. And the girls get particular. You can’t get a wife no longer for a yard of blue baize and a stick of sealing-wax. Excuse me, captain. I’m a sailor. I sometimes talk rough. But there it is. All a sailor has at the end is just what he can remember. What I can mind of logwood-cutting is the same as a trader’s money-bags is to him. I must be off forward, to have my morning draw.” He spun his chair round, and rose, pressing the tobacco into his clay pipe. “Give me my hat, stooard.” He bowed to the two friends, walking slowly to the cabin door. “By the way, sir,” he called back. “I forgot to ask. I suppose you’ll be going ashore this fine morning?” “Yes,” said Margaret, “I am going ashore. I shall want the boat, captain.” “Very good, sir,” said Cammock. “Will you want to fill our water, sir?” “No,” said Margaret. “I shall sail before sunset, if the wind holds. We shall fill no more water till we make Virginia.” “Very good, Captain Margaret,” said Cammock. “If you don’t want the hands, I’ll try them at the guns. It’s time they got into the way of doing things.” He spun upon his heel, leaving the two friends together. The steward, gathering up the gear, retired to the pantry to wash up.