“Well, Jack, I daresay that he is a very pleasant companion to one who, like you, is so anxious for information, and I have nothing to say against him, for we have no right to listen to foolish reports which may probably have been raised from his savage appearance.  Still, I confess I do not like the man, as he is decidedly of a violent temper.  As long as he talks to you about what you say he does, there is no harm done; but when once he says anything which you think is wrong, promise me to let me know; and even now, if you will take my advice, you will not be so intimate with him.”

A little while afterward my father and Ben the Whaler both spoke to me on the same subject, but with much less reservation.

My father said, “Jack, I don’t like to see you always in company with that old pirate, no good can come of it; so haul off a little further for the future.”

And Ben told me, “That a man who couldn’t sleep o’ nights without talking of killing people must have a bad conscience, and something lying heavy on his soul.  There’s an old saying, Jack, ’Tell me whose company you keeps, and I’ll tell you what sort of a chap you be.’  You’ve the character of a good honest boy; steer clear of Sam Spicer, or you’ll lose it.”

Admonitions from all those whom I loved were not without their effect, and I made a resolution to be less intimate with Spicer.  But it was difficult to do so, as I was obliged to be at the landing-steps, and could not prevent his coming there.

I acknowledge that it was a severe privation to me to follow the injunctions given to me, for I would listen for hours to the thrilling narratives, the strange and almost incredible accounts of battles, incidents, and wild adventures, which this man Spicer would relate to me; and when I thought over them I felt that the desire to rove was becoming more strong within me every day.  One morning I said to him that “I had a great mind to go on board of a man-of-war.”

“On board of a man-of-war?” replied Spicer; “you’d soon be sick enough of that.  Why, who would be at the beck and nod of others, ordered here, called there, by boy midshipmen; bullied by lieutenants, flogged by captains; have all the work and little of the pay, all the fighting and less of the prize-money; and, after having worn out your life in hard service, be sent here as a great favor, to wear a cocked hat and get a shilling a week for your ’baccy?  Pshaw, boy! that’s not life.”

“Then, what is life?’ inquired I.

“What is life?  Why, to sail in a clipper with a jolly crew and a roving commission; take your prizes, share and share alike, of gold-dust and doubloons.”

“But what sort of vessel must that be, Spicer?”

“What sort? why—­a letter of marque—­a privateer—­a cruise on the Spanish Main—­that’s life.  Many’s the jolly day I’ve seen in those latitudes, where men-of-war do not bring vessels to and press the best men out of them.  There the sun’s warm, and the sky and the sea are deep blue, and the corals grow like forests underneath, and there are sandy coves and cool caves for retreat—­and where you may hide your gold till you want it—­ay, and your sweethearts too, if you have any.”