The Vineyard boat went curving out in a wide sweep, another came in; a tugboat pursued its leisurely way across the harbor, and I held my breath in fear lest it should be bound for the Clearchus—with her crew of two; a lightship began to warp into the next dock above, preparatory to heaving down for repairs; the Custom House boat started out with an inspector to meet a ship that had been sighted down the bay; two catboats started from Al Soule’s for the same purpose; riggers and {13} stevedores were busy on a whaleship in the dock next below, getting her spars up and bending on sails; the leisurely activities of New Bedford Harbor of nearly fifty years ago went on; the sun was warm and the wind light, and the smell of tar and sperm oil was heavy on the air, but in the lee of the hill the oil smell overpowered everything else. I liked that sickish smell of crude sperm oil. I like it yet. With that smell in my nostrils I have but to close my eyes and I see the warm, sunny harbor, some whaler lying in the stream ready to sail, the fluorescent green of the water in the dock—its peculiar color due to a mixture of oil and sewage—some other whaler lying at the wharf with her sails hanging limp from her yards, perhaps a vessel hove down at the other side of the wharf, and I heard the sound of mallets and the laughter and the talk of men on the still air. Fifty years ago I was actually hearing these things, waiting impatiently for twelve o’clock. But I waited, for I wanted to speak to my father alone. At last I heard the bell in the Stone Church tower sound noon, but the sound of the mauls did not stop at once, but one after another; then a few strokes of a single beetle, and I heard it laid down. The men had already begun to come up. My father was the last, and I watched him with some pride, a big, brawny, smiling man. I wished I were big and brawny and smiling, like him. And he saw me standing there, and smiled more than ever, a personal smile and tender in a way. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Timmie,” he said. “You here yet? I thought you would have gone home long ago. Dinner ’ll be waiting. What is it, boy? Walk along with me and tell me. I can see it ’s something bothering you.” My brother Tom had started walking with us, but we were too slow for him, and he had run ahead. It was Big Tim and Little Tim. My father was always known as Big Tim. {14} I did not know how to begin, so I said nothing, but I struggled. My father saw the struggle. He smiled again. “Out with it, Timmie,” he said. I raised my eyes slowly, and I am afraid that tears were in them. “I want to go whaling, father,” I blurted out. His smile faded swiftly. “Do you?” he said. “Do you? I hoped it would n’t be that. It begins to look—or it has been looking for some time as if the whaling business would die out. It won’t be a good business for some time, if it does n’t go from bad to worse. Have you thought of that, Timmie?”