Sure enough, I had not been very long on deck when the ship's boy appeared before me. He was an abject looking lad, like most ship's boys. I suppose no one would become a ship's boy until he had proved himself unfit for life anywhere else. Personally, I had rather be a desert savage than a ship's boy. My experience on La Reina was enough to sicken me of such a life forever. This barquentine's boy came up to me, as I have said. “Sir,” he said, “can I take away your boots to black, please?” “No,” I answered, “my boots don't want blacking. I grease them myself.” “Please, sir,” he said, “do let me take them away, sir.” “No,” I said. “I grease them myself, thank you.” I thought that this would end the business; but no such matter. “Please, sir,” he said, “I wish you would let me take them away. The captain'll wale me if I don't. He gave me orders, sir.” “Don't call me 'sir,'” I said. “I'll see the captain myself.” I walked quickly to the companion-way, below which (listening to us, like the creature he was) sat the captain, carving the end of a stick. “Please, sir,” I said, “I've already greased my boots this morning. I always grease them.” (I had only had them about twelve hours.) “If I blacked them they'd get so dry that they would crack.” “All right. All right, boy,” he answered. “I forgot you wore soft-leather boots. They're the kind they buy up to make salt beef of at the Navy Yard.” He grinned in my face, as though he were pleased; but a few minutes later, when I had gone forward, I heard him thrashing the wretched boy, because he had failed to get the boots from me for him.