Once when Clancy was a skipper he did a fine bit of rescuing out to sea, and after he got home a newspaper man saw him and wrote him up. I had the clipping stuck on the wall of Withrow's store for months and had read it so often that I knew it by heart. "In heavy jack-boots and summer sou'wester, with a black jersey of fine quality sticking up above the neck of his oil-jacket, with a face that won you at sight; cheeks a nice even pink; damp, storm-beaten, and healthful; with mouth, eyes, and jaw bespeaking humor, sympathy, and courage; shoulders that seemed made for butting to windward--an attractive, inspiring, magnetic man altogether--that is Captain Tommie Clancy of the Gloucester fisherman, the Mary Andrews." That, was how it read, and certainly it fitted him now, as he stood there in the middle of the thick curling smoke of the pipes, holding the mug of coffee in one hand and the sandwich of bread and meat in the other, leaning easily against the butt of the foremast, and between gulps and bites taking notice of the crew. "Give me," he said to the cook as the proper man for an audience, "a seiner's crew when they're not on fish for real gentlemen of leisure. Look at 'em now--you'd think they were all near-sighted, with their cards up to their chins. And above them look--Kipling to starb'd and the Duchess to port. Mulvaney, I'll bet, filled full of whiskey and keeping the heathen on the jump, and Airy Fairy Lillian, or some other daisy with winning ways, disturbing the peace of mind of half a dozen dukes. Mulvaney's all right, but the Duchess! They'll be taking books of that kind to the mast-head next. What d'y' s'pose I found aft the other day? Now what d'y' s'pose? I'll bet you'd never guess. No, no. Well, 'He Loved, but Was Lured Away.' Yes. Isn't that fine stuff for a fisherman to be feeding on? But whoever was reading it, he was ashamed of it. 'Well, who owns this thing?' says I, picking up the lured-away lad. 'Nobody,' speaks up Sam there. Of course he didn't own it--O no!