hat and looked up, “so long as the Great Captain has His way, and things is done to His mind?  But how ever a man like you, goin’ to the college, and readin’ books, and warm o’ nights, and never, by your own confession this blessed mornin’, sir, knowin’ what it was to be downright hungry, how ever you come to know all those things, is just past my comprehension, except by a double portion o’ the Spirit, sir.  And that’s the way I account for it, sir.”

Although I knew enough about a ship to understand the old man, I am not sure that I have properly represented his sea-phrase.  But that is of small consequence, so long as I give his meaning.  And a meaning can occasionally be even better conveyed by less accurate words.

“I will try to tell you how I come to know about these things as I do,” I returned.  “How my knowledge may stand the test of further and severer trials remains to be seen.  But if I should fail any time, old friend, and neither trust in God nor do my duty, what I have said to you remains true all the same.”

“That it do, sir, whoever may come short.”

“And more than that:  failure does not necessarily prove any one to be a hypocrite of no faith.  He may be still a man of little faith.”

“Surely, surely, sir.  I remember once that my faith broke down—­just for one moment, sir.  And then the Lord gave me my way lest I should blaspheme Him in thy wicked heart.”

“How was that, Rogers?”

“A scream came from the quarter-deck, and then the cry:  ’Child overboard!’ There was but one child, the captain’s, aboard.  I was sitting just aft the foremast, herring-boning a split in a spare jib.  I sprang to the bulwark, and there, sure enough, was the child, going fast astarn, but pretty high in the water.  How it happened I can’t think to this day, sir, but I suppose my needle, in the hurry, had got into my jacket, so as to skewer it to my jersey, for we were far south of the line at the time, sir, and it was cold.  However that may be, as soon as I was overboard, which you may be sure didn’t want the time I take tellin’ of it, I found that I ought to ha’ pulled my jacket off afore I gave the bulwark the last kick.  So I rose on the water, and began to pull it over my head—­for it was wide, and that was the easiest way, I thought, in the water.  But when I had got it right over my head, there it stuck.  And there was I, blind as a Dutchman in a fog, and in as strait a jacket as ever poor wretch in Bedlam, for I could only just wag my flippers.  Mr Walton, I believe I swore—­the Lord forgive me!—­but it was trying.  And what was far worse, for one moment I disbelieved in Him; and I do say that’s worse than swearing—­in a hurry I mean.  And that moment something went, the jacket was off, and there was I feelin’ as if every stroke I took was as wide as the mainyard.  I had no time to repent, only to thank God.  And wasn’t it more than I deserved, sir?  Ah!  He can rebuke a man for unbelief by giving him the desire of his heart.  And that’s a better rebuke than tying him up to the gratings.”