"Pretty dirty. Nasty swell on, and so thick you could hack holes in it.
Come pretty nigh missin' her"--and the Captain opened his big
storm-coat, hooked his cloth cap with its ear-tabs on one prong of the
back of one office-chair, stretched his length in another, and, bending
forward, reached out his long, brawny arm for the cigar I was extending
toward him.
I have described this sea-dog before--as a younger sea-dog--twenty
years younger, in fact, he was in my employ then--he and his sloop
Screamer. Every big foundation stone that Caleb set in Shark Ledge
Light--the one off Keyport harbor--can tell you about them both.
In those light-house days this Captain Bob was "a tall, straight,
blue-eyed young fellow of twenty-two, with a face like an open book--one
of those perfectly simple, absolutely fearless, alert men found so often
on the New England coast, with legs and arms of steel, body of hickory,
and hands of whalebone; cabin boy at twelve, common sailor at sixteen,
first mate at twenty, and full captain the year he voted.
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