“What is the difference between these lonely islanders and Yorkshire men like you and me?”

“There is a good bit of difference, in more ways than one, sir.  For instance, they aren’t fashionable.  The women mostly dress the same, and there are no stylish shapes in the men’s ‘oils’ and guernseys.  Then, they call no man ‘master.’  God is their employer, and from His hand they take their daily bread.  And they don’t set themselves up against Him, and grumble about their small wages and their long hours.  And if the weather is bad, and they are kept off a sea that no boat could live in, they don’t grumble like Yorkshire men do, when warehouses are overstocked and trade nowhere, and employers hev to make shorter hours and less pay.”

“What then?”

“The men smoke a few more pipes, and the women spin a few more hanks of wool.  And in the long evenings there’s a good bit of violin-playing and reciting, but there’s no murmuring against their Great Master.  And there’s no drinking, or dance halls.  And when the storm is over, the men untie their boats with a shout and the women gladly clean up the stour of the idle time.”

“Did you ever see a Yorkshire strike?”

“To be sure I hev; I had my say at the Hatton strike, I hed that!  You were at college then, and your father was managing it, so we could not take the yacht out as expected, and I run down to Hatton to hev a talk with Stephen Hatton.  There was a big strike meeting that afternoon, and I went and listened to the men stating ‘their grievances.’  They talked a lot of nonsense, and I told them so.  ‘Get all you can rightly,’ I said, ’but don’t expect Stephen Hatton or any other cotton lord to run factories for fun.  They won’t do it, and you wouldn’t do it yersens!’”

“Did they talk sensibly?”

“They talked foolishness and believed it, too.  It was fair capping to listen to them.  There was some women present, slatterns all, and I told them to go home and red up their houses and comb up their hair, and try to look like decent cotton-spinners’ wives.  And when this advice was cheered, the women began to get excited, and I thought I would be safer in Hatton Hall.  Women are queer creatures.”

“Were you ever married, Captain?”

“Not to any woman.  My ship is my wife.  She’s father and mother and brother and sister to me.  I have no kin, and when I see how much trouble kin can give you, I don’t feel lonely.  The ship I sail—­whatever her name—­is to me ‘My Lady,’ and I guard and guide and cherish her all the days of her life with me.”

“Why do you say ‘her life,’ Captain?”

“Because ships are like women—­contrary and unreasonable.  Like women they must be made to answer the rudder, or they go on the rocks.  There are, of course, men-of-war, and they get men’s names, and we give them fire and steel to protect themselves, but when your yacht with sails set, goes curtsying over the waves like a duchess, you know she’s feminine, and you wouldn’t call her after your father or yourself, but your sweetheart’s name would be just suitable, I’m sure.”