So, you see, we
don't go out much, but when we DO, it means business with a great
big B. Now, this here, you see," continued the Captain, rolling
back the sliding doors of the house, "is the surf-boat. By the
way, let's see; I ain't just caught your names yet."
"Well, my name's Rivers," said Condy, "and this is Miss Bessemer.
We're both from the city."
"Happy to know you, sir; happy to know you, miss," he returned,
pulling off his cap. "My name's Hoskins, but you can just call me
Captain Jack. I'm so used to it that I don't kind of answer to
the other. Well, now, Miss Bessemer, this here's the surf-boat;
she's self-rightin', self-bailin', she can't capsize, and if I was
to tell you how many thousands of dollars she cost, you wouldn't
believe me."
Condy and Blix spent a delightful half-hour in the boat-house
while Captain Jack explained and illustrated, and told them
anecdotes of wrecks, escapes, and rescues till they held their
breaths like ten-year-olds.
It did not take Condy long to know that he had discovered what the
story-teller so often tells of but so seldom finds, and what, for
want of a better name, he elects to call "a character."
Captain Jack had been everywhere, had seen everything, and had
done most of the things worth doing, including a great many things
that he had far better have left undone. But on this latter point
the Captain seemed to be innocently and completely devoid of a
moral sense of right and wrong.
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