The two bands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to the memory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago—­and surely a more touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone.  This caused me to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should take it as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a black hand on my chest.  He said the colors were pricked into the skin with needles, and that the operation was somewhat painful.  I assured him, in an off-hand manner, that I didn’t mind pain, and begged him to set to work at once.

The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his skill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying with my request, when my father happened to own the gangway—­a circumstance that rather interfered with the decorative art.

I didn’t have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola of the Boston State House.

Chapter Four—­Rivermouth

It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf.  Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were away just then on a war-path, I couldn’t determine; but they did not appear in any great force—­in fact, did not appear at all.

In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studying at New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth.  The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hats to speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with the Pilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party.  Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of all my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from the aborigines.  Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectations unfulfilled.  By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used to wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers.

While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mounted on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston.  As we came up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on an immense bill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surrounded by her brood of many-colored chickens.  A closer inspection did not impress me very favorably.  The city was not nearly so imposing as New Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks of the majestic river.

I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one another in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose to remain long in Boston.  As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down on the wharf he’d lick me for two cents—­not an exorbitant price.  But I didn’t go down.  I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him.  This, as I was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his head on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself.