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Updated: June 4, 2025
There had been a murmur, presumably of remonstrance, from Helen. "Eh?" Another murmur. "EH? WHO'D you say was there?" A third murmur. "WHO? . . . Oh, that Speranzy one? Lote Snow's grandson? The one they used to call the Portygee? . . . Eh? Well, all right, I don't care if he did hear me. If he don't know you're nice and smart and good-lookin', it's high time he did."
They crashed together, gasped and recoiled. "Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Albert. "Can't you see where you're goin', you darned Portygee half-breed?" demanded Sam. Albert, who had stepped past him, turned and came back. "What did you say?" he asked. "I said you was a darned half-breed, and you are. You're a no-good Portygee, like your father." It was all he had time to say.
But he had already picked his crew with some care. Mason Chapin was mate, a perfectly capable navigator who might have used his ticket to get a berth on a much larger craft than the Seamew. But he had an invalid wife and wished only to leave home on brief voyages. Johnny Lark was shipped as cook, with a Portygee boy, Tony, to help him.
Neither Eunez Pareta nor any other girl of the port, Portygee or Yankee had ever made Tunis Latham's heart flutter. He was not impervious to the blandishments of all feminine beauty. As Cap'n Ira Ball would have said, Tunis was "a general admirer of the sect."
When he entered the post office some one in the crowd was almost sure to hum, "Here's to the good old whiskey, drink her down." On the train on the way to the picnic, girls and young fellows had slyly nagged him about it. The affair and its consequence were the principal causes of his mood that day; this particular "Portygee streak" was due to it.
He had gone berserk with rage. His cap had either fallen off or been torn from his head by a bullet; his squat, powerful figure was shaking with frenzy; he emphasized each curse with a passionate gesture of the free hand and arm; he said among other things, and with no lack of forceful adjectives, that if he could only come to close quarters with some of the Portygee assassins on the island he would tear their sanguinary livers out.
Now one end of "the port," as the village of Big Wreck Cove was usually called by the natives, was known as Portygee Town. Wreckers' Head boasted of several homes of retired shipmasters and owners of Cap'n Ira's ilk.
It is possible that Gertie found it almost as little fun when he did come. He happened to be in one of his moods that day; "Portygee streaks," his grandfather termed these moods, and told Olive that they were "that play-actor breakin' out in him."
It must not be forgotten that Coke shared with his employer a certain unclassical freedom in the pronunciation of the ship's name; the long "e" apparently puzzled the other man. "Andromeeda?" he muttered. "Spell it!" "My godfather, this is an asylum for sure," grunted Coke, in a spasm of furious mirth. "A-n-d-r-o-m-e-d-a. Now you've got it. Ain't it up to Portygee standard? A-n-d-r-o-m-e-d-a!
It was believed that these Portygee fishermen would have their seines dyed red and yellow if the fish would swim into them. A young woman sitting upon a doorstep, nursing a little, bald, brown-headed baby, dropped a gay handkerchief over her bared bosom but nodded and smiled at the captain of the Seamew with right good fellowship.
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