“Object!” cried the captain, as though speaking in the teeth of a Nor’wester.  “Of course not.  But then, Nigel, poetry in your mother is poetry, an’ she can do it, lad—­screeds of it—­equal to anything that Dibdin, or, or,—­that other fellow, you know, I forget his name—­ever put pen to—­why, your mother is herself a poem! neatly made up, rounded off at the corners, French-polished and all shipshape.  Ha! you needn’t go an’ shelter yourself under her wings, wi’ your inflated, up in the clouds, reef-point-patterin’, balloon-like nonsense.”

“Well, well, father, don’t get so hot about it; I won’t offend again.  Besides, I’m quite content to take a very low place so long as you give mother her right position.  We won’t disagree about that, but I suspect that we differ considerably about the other matter you mentioned.”

“What other matter?” demanded the sire.

“My doing duty as first mate,” answered the son.  “It must be quite evident to you by this time, I should think, that I am not cut out for a sailor.  After all your trouble, and my own efforts during this long voyage round the Cape, I’m no better than an amateur.  I told you that a youth taken fresh from college, without any previous experience of the sea except in boats, could not be licked into shape in so short a time.  It is absurd to call me first mate of the Sunshine.  That is in reality Mr. Moor’s position—­”

“No, it isn’t, Nigel, my son,” interrupted the captain, firmly.  “Mr. Moor is second mate. I say so, an’ if I, the skipper and owner o’ this brig, don’t know it, I’d like to know who does!  Now, look here, lad.  You’ve always had a bad habit of underratin’ yourself an’ contradictin’ your father.  I’m an old salt, you know, an’ I tell ’ee that for the time you’ve bin at sea, an’ the opportunities you’ve had, you’re a sort o’ walkin’ miracle.  You’re no more an ammytoor than I am, and another voyage or two will make you quite fit to work your way all over the ocean, an’ finally to take command o’ this here brig, an’ let your old father stay at home wi’—­wi’—­”

“With the Poetess,” suggested Nigel.

“Just so—­wi’ the equal o’ Dibdin, not to mention the other fellow.  Now it seems to me—.  How’s ’er head?”

The captain suddenly changed the subject here.

Nigel, who chanced to be standing next the binnacle, stooped to examine the compass, and the flood of light from its lamp revealed a smooth but manly and handsome face which seemed quite to harmonise with the cheery voice that belonged to it.

“Nor’-east-and-by-east,” he said.

“Are ’ee sure, lad?”

“Your doubting me, father, does not correspond with your lately expressed opinion of my seamanship; does it?”

“Let me see,” returned the captain, taking no notice of the remark, and stooping to look at the compass with a critical eye.

The flood of light, in this case, revealed a visage in which good-nature had evidently struggled for years against the virulent opposition of wind and weather, and had come off victorious, though not without evidences of the conflict.  At the same time it revealed features similar to those of the son, though somewhat rugged and red, besides being smothered in hair.