“A man might or might not have many reasons for calling a cleat a timber noggin besides that of not knowing any better than to do so,” I responded.  “For instance—­”

But Trunnell cut me short.  “No, Mr. Rolling, there ain’t no use disguising the fact any more, this skipper don’t know nothin’ about a ship.  You’ll find that out before we get to the west’ard o’ the Agullas.  Mind ye, I ain’t making no criticism o’ the old man.  I never does that to no superior officer, but when a man tells me to do the things he does, it stands to reason that we’ve got an old man aboard here who’s been in a ship for the first time as officer.”

I agreed with him, and he was much pleased.

“A man what finds fault an’ criticises everybody above him is always a failure, Mr. Rolling,” he went on.  “Yes, sir, the faultfinder is always a failure.  An’ the reason so many sailors find fault all the time is because they is failures.  I am tryin’ not to find fault with the skipper, but to pint out that we’re in for some rough times if things don’t change aboard in the sailorin’ line afore we gets to the west’ard o’ the Agullas.  Sink me, if that ain’t so, for here we is without half the sails bent an’ no new braces, nothin’ but two-year-old manila stuff what’s wore clean through.  Them topsails look good enough, but they is as rotten with the lime in them as if they was burned.  No, sir, I ain’t makin’ no criticism, but I burns within when I think of the trouble a few dollars would save.  Yes, sir, I burns within.”

Mr. Trunnell here spat profusely to leeward and walked athwartships for some moments without further remark.  The third mate came on deck and stood near the lee mizzen rigging, looking forward at the foam swirling from the bends and drifting aft alongside at a rapid rate.  The phosphorus shone brilliantly in the water, and the wake of the ship was like a path of molten metal, for the night was quite dark and the heavy banks of clouds which had been making steadily to the westward over-spread the sky.  It was nearly time for the southwest monsoon to shift, and with this change would likely follow a spell o’ weather, as Trunnell chose to put it.  The third mate had never given an order since he had come aboard, and I noticed Trunnell’s sly wink as he glanced in the direction of the mizzen.

“Mr. Rolling,” said he, “wimmen have been my ruin.  Yes, sir, wimmen have been my ruin, an’ I’m that scared o’ them I can raise them afore their topmast is above the horizon.  Sink me, if that ain’t one.”  And he leered at the figure of the third mate, whom we knew as Mr. Bell.

“What would a woman be doing here as third mate?” I asked; for although I had come to the same conclusion some days before, I had said nothing to any one about it.

“That’s the old man’s affair,” said Trunnell; “it may be his wife, or it may be his daughter, but any one can see that the fellow’s pants are entirely too big in the heft for a man.  An’ his voice!  Sink me, Rolling, but you never hearn tell of a man or boy pipin’ so soft like.  Why, it skeers me to listen to it.  It’s just like—­but no matter.”