With his other hand he
stroked the scar along his jaw. He had a feeling that he had been
cheated. That story of the mutiny of the _Galatea_ was destined to be
one of his very best narratives.
He had come to take great pride in these tales, had Cap'n Abe. He had
heard enough men relate personal reminiscences to realize that his
achievements in the story-telling line had a flavor all their own. He
could hold his course with any of them, was his way of expressing it.
And here something had intervened to shut him off in the middle of a
narrative. Cap'n Abe did not like it.
His keen vision swept the outlook once more. How darkly the clouds
lowered! And the wind, spray-ridden down here on the open strand, cut
shrewdly. It would be a wild night. Casually he thought of his
cheerful living-room, with his chintz-cushioned rocker, Diddimus
purring on the couch, and the lamplight streaming over all.
"Lucky chap, you, Abe Silt, after all," he muttered. "Lucky you ain't
at sea in a blow like this."
It was just then that he saw the laboring schooner in the offing.
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