The Captain’s eyes were upon this tow.  He tugged excitedly at his beard.  “Well, by George, what a coincidence!” he exclaimed.  He turned to the mate, his bright eyes snapping.  “Look, Briggs!  Do you know her?  By George, do you recognize her?”

The writing guy was disgusted by this interruption, just when he was going to prove his genius.  Briggs shifted his quid, spat, and inspected the passing hulk with extreme deliberation.  I looked at her too, wondering what there was about an old coal-carrier that could pierce Captain Shreve’s accustomed phlegm.

The tow was passing abreast, but a couple of hundred yards distant.  The tug was shortening the line, and on the hulk’s forecastle-head a couple of hands were busy at a cathead, preparing to let go anchor.  She was ill-favored enough to look at, that hulk—­weather-beaten, begrimed, stripped of all that makes a ship sightly.  Nothing but the worn-out old hull was left.  An eyesore, truly.  Yet, any seaman could see with half an eye she had once been a fine ship.  The clipper lines were there.

Suddenly Briggs sat up in his chair, and exclaimed, “Well, blast my eyes, so it is!” He nodded to the Captain, and then returned his regard to the hulk, his nostrils working with interest.  “So it is!  So it is!  Well, blast my——­”

“Is what?” I demanded.  “What do you two see in that old hull that is so extraordinary?”

Just then the writing guy decided we had monopolized the conversation long enough.  So he seized the opportunity to exercise for our benefit the rare gift he was endowed with.  He glanced patronizingly at the coal hulk, wrinkled his nose in disapprobation of her appearance, and delivered himself in an oracular voice.

“What a horrible looking old tub!  Not a difficult task to invest her with her true personality.  An old workhorse—­eh?  A broken down old plug, built for heavy labor, and now rounding out an uninspiring existence by performing the most menial of tasks.  An apt description—­what?”

I noticed a faint smile crack the straight line of Captain Shreve’s mouth.  But it was Briggs who was unable to contain himself.  He turned full upon the poor scribe, and plainly voiced his withering scorn.

“Why, blast my eyes, young feller, if you weren’t as blind as a bat you’d know you were talking rot!  ‘A workhorse!’ you say.  ’A broken down old plug!’ Blast me, man, look at the lines of her!”

The passenger flushed, and stared uncomprehendingly at the poor old hulk.  The tug had gone, and she was lying anchored, now, a few hundred yards off our starboard bow.  A sorry sight.  The author could see nothing but her ugliness.

“Why, she is just a dirty old scow—­” he commenced.

“Blast me, can’t you even guess what she once was?” went on Briggs, relentlessly.  “Well, young feller, that dirty old scow—­as you call her—­is the Golden Bough!”