“Why,” said Henry, “since you are a sea-capting, you must know the lay of it.  Hain’t you never crossed the line in a sailin’ ship before?”

He had apparently recovered himself, and the surprise at meeting an old acquaintance appeared to give him pleasure.

Taking Mrs. Sackett by the hand, he led her aft up the poop steps, Jackwell following, keeping up a continual talk about whales and whaling skippers.  Jennie and I followed behind and examined the brig’s strange outfit.

The first mate, a man of middle age, lean and gaunt, came forward and introduced himself.  He had sailed in every kind of ship, and was now whaling, he declared, for the last time.  As I had made several “last voyages” myself, I knew that he meant simply to show involuntarily that he was a confirmed sailor of the most pronounced sort.

He showed us the lines and irons, the cutting-in outfit, and the kettles and furnace for boiling down the blubber.  We followed him about, and I expressed my thanks when we arrived at the poop again, where he left us.  Jennie was not interested, and the fact was not lost upon the old fellow, who turned away to join his mates at the kettles.

“Do you know, Mr. Rolling, I don’t care a rap for ships,” said she.  “They don’t interest me any more, and I don’t think they are the place for women, anyhow.”

“It would be mighty lonesome for some men if they acted on that idea and kept out of them,” I answered.

We were all alone by the mizzen, the captains having gone below with Mrs. Sackett to show her the interior of the ship.

The young girl looked up, and I fancied there was just a sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

“Do you really think so?” she said.  “Can’t men find more useful occupations than following the sea,—­that is, those who are lonely?”

“Some men are fitted to do certain things in this world and unfitted for others.  It would be hard on those whose lines are laid out like that for them.  You don’t think a man follows the sea after his first voyage because he likes it, do you?” I said.

“Then for Heaven’s sake why don’t they stay ashore?” she demanded.

“Would you care for a man who would stay out of a thing that he was fitted for, simply because it was hard?” I asked her.

She blushed and turned away.

“I was not speaking of caring for any one, Mr. Rolling,” she replied.  And then she added quickly, “I think we will go below and see what they have for us.”

“No, wait just one minute, Jennie,” I said, taking her hand and stopping her gently without attracting the attention of the men forward.  “This is the first time we’ve had a chance to talk of ourselves in two months.  I want to ask you if you really meant that?”

“Meant what?” she said, stopping and turning around, facing me squarely.

“That you didn’t care for any one?” I stammered, and I remember how my face burned.