He was probably the most dishevelled and untidy man I ever laid my eyes on.  His hair and beard were not only long, but tangled and unkempt, and grew so far toward each other as barely to expose a strip of dirty brown skin.  His shoulders were bowed and enormous.  His arms hung like a gorilla’s, palms turned slightly outwards.  On his head was jammed a linen boating hat that had once been white; gaping away from his hairy chest was a faded dingy checked cotton shirt that had once been brown and white; his blue trousers were spotted and splashed with dusty stains; he was chewing tobacco.  A figure more in contrast to the exquisitely neat vessel it would be hard to imagine.

The captain mounted the gangplank with a steadiness that disproved my first suspicion of his having been on a drunk.  He glanced aloft, cast a speculative eye on the stevedores trooping across the waist of the ship, and ascended to the quarter-deck where the mate stood leaning over the rail and uttering directed curses from between sweat-beaded lips.  There the big man roamed aimlessly on what seemed to be a tour of casual inspection.  Once he stopped to breathe on the brass binnacle and to rub it bright with the dirtiest red bandana handkerchief I ever want to see.

His actions amused me.  The discrepancy between his personal habits and his particularity in the matter of his surroundings was exceedingly interesting.  I have often noticed that such discrepancies seem to indicate exceptional characters.  As I watched him, his whole frame stiffened.  The long gorilla arms contracted, the hairy head sunk forward in the tenseness of a serpent ready to strike.  He uttered a shrill falsetto shriek that brought to a standstill every stevedore on the job; and sprang forward to seize his mate by, the shoulder.

Evidently the grasp hurt.  I can believe it might, from those huge hands.  The man wrenched himself about with an oath of inquiry and pain.  I could hear one side of what followed.  The captain’s high-pitched tones carried clearly; but the grumble and growl of the mate were indistinguishable at that distance.

“How far is it to the side of the ship, you hound of hell?” shrieked the captain.

Mumble—­surprised—­for an answer.

“Well, I’ll tell you, you swab!  It’s just two fathom from where you stand.  Just two fathom!  How long would it take you to walk there?  How long?  Just about six seconds!  There and back!  You—­” I won’t bother with all the epithets, although by now I know Captain Selover’s vocabulary fairly well.  “And you couldn’t take six seconds off to spit over the side!  Couldn’t walk two fathom!  Had to spit on my quarter-deck, did you!”

Rumble from the mate.

“No, by God, you won’t call up any of the crew.  You’ll get a swab and do it yourself.  You’ll get a hand swab and get down on your knees, damn you!  I’ll teach you to be lazy!”

The mate said something again.