He
was the same old man whom Captain Wragge had seen in the backyard at St.
Crux, at work on the model of a ship. All round the neighborhood he was
known, far and wide, as "the admiral's coxswain." His name was Mazey.
Sixty years had written their story of hard work at sea, and hard
drinking on shore, on the veteran's grim and wrinkled face. Sixty years
had proved his fidelity, and had brought his battered old carcass, at
the end of the voyage, into port in his master's house.
Seeing no one else of whom she could inquire, Magdalen requested the old
man to show her the way that led to the housekeeper's room.
"I'll show you, my dear," said old Mazey, speaking in the high and
hollow voice peculiar to the deaf. "You're the new maid--eh? And a
fine-grown girl, too! His honor, the admiral, likes a parlor-maid with a
clean run fore and aft. You'll do, my dear--you'll do."
"You must not mind what Mr. Mazey says to you," remarked t he
housekeeper, opening her door as the old sailor expressed his approval
of Magdalen in these terms. "He is privileged to t alk as he pleases;
and he is very tiresome and slovenly in his habits; but he means no
harm."
With that apology for the veteran, Mrs.
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