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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Where is the Shipman?" asked Knolles. "What is your name, fellow? Do you dare call yourself master-mariner?" "My name is Nat Dennis, fair sir," said the gray-bearded old seaman. "It is thirty years since first I showed my cartel and blew trumpet for a crew at the water-gate of Southampton. If any man may call himself master-mariner, it is surely I." "Where are our two ships?"
A trim and pretty English maid entered the room the instant it was vacated by the gray-bearded man and the tall person who had posed as his wife. While Dorothy sat like a statue, gazing upon her, the young woman lighted other candles in the apartment and then came to the side of the mute, wretched newcomer. "Will you let me prepare you for bed, miss? It is very late, and you must be tired.
The ancient burghers contended who should have the privilege of bearing the pall; the populace strove who should walk nearest to the bier, and the melancholy procession was closed by a number of gray-bearded negroes, who had wintered and summered in the household of their departed master for the greater part of a century. With sad and gloomy countenances the multitude gathered round the grave.
I declined on the plea that I was warm enough, and then the woman said that they were very cold, having been long on the road. The man was gray-haired and gray-bearded, clad in an old drab overcoat, and laden with a huge bag, which seemed to contain bedclothing or something of the kind. The woman was pale, with a thin, anxious, wrinkled face, but with a good and kind expression.
There were seven children, five girls and two boys; there was the gracious, genial mother at the head and the wiry, gray-haired and gray-bearded surgeon at the foot; there was, as usual, Jim Studdiford, and to-day, besides, there was Aunt Sanna, an unmarried younger sister of the doctor, and a little black-eyed, delicate ten-year-old guest of the eleven-year-old Janie, Keith Borroughs, who was sitting near to Janie, and evidently adoring that spirited chatterbox.
The master-at-arms descended, and in a few moments the unwanted Finnegan appeared a gray-bearded, emaciated, bleary-eyed seaman, who brushed imaginary things from his neck and arms, and stammered, as he removed his cap: "Report for duty, sir." "For duty?" answered the captain, eying him sternly. "For death. You will be allowed the honorable death of an English seaman.
Her hair was in thick, dark coils, and she was older. She was not pretty now. Her face was twisted by the brutal beating of the storm, and her eyes were nearly closed. But it was the man Jolly Roger stared at, while his heart choked inside him. He was grizzled and gray-bearded, with military mustaches and a bald head. He was not dead.
It appeared the business in hand was of a pacific character; for the gray-bearded old men of the little settlement, in their decent russet gowns, came first after the rustic band of music, walking in ranks of three and three, supported by their staves, and regulating the motion of the whole procession by their sober and staid pace.
Dobrunka told him, with tears, how, if she did not bring home some red apples, her mother and sister would beat her to death. Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before. "Brother September," said he to a gray-bearded man in a purple mantle, "this is your business."
But little had been said so far. At a turn of the road they came upon a gray-bearded man, wearing a battered silk hat and spectacles, whom Mrs. Bolster greeted as "'Squire." The word seemed to send all the blood from Shorty's face, and he looked appealingly to Si as if the crisis had come. The newcomer looked them over sharply and inquired: "Who are these men, Mrs. Bolster?"
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