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Updated: May 12, 2025
"Edith," I whispered, as I took her hand, "I am a common sailorman, but if you could love me I I " I stopped in confusion, and as she had done on a former occasion, she came to the rescue of my stammering tongue. "You are a big, true man," she murmured. "If you had not come with us we should not have returned from that awful place.
You vas yoost so good a sailorman as I. You vas a bully boy und able seaman, und I pe proud for you! "Und Chris!" He turned as if he had forgotten something, and called back, "From dis time always you call me 'Emil' mitout der 'Mister'!" Jack London's First Story, Published at the Age of Seventeen. It was four bells in the morning watch.
"Hold up the lantern, Miguel," the tall man said, "and let's have a look at him." The Portuguese obeyed. Then Robert felt the hard blue eyes fastened upon him, but he raised himself as much as he could and gave back the gaze fearlessly. "Well, how's our sailorman?" said the captain, laughing, and his laughter was hideous to the prisoner. "I don't understand you," said Robert.
It was this that made him protest, at the commencement of our acquaintance, against being called Yonson. And upon this, and him, Louis passed judgment and prophecy. "'Tis a fine chap, that squarehead Johnson we've for'ard with us," he said. "The best sailorman in the fo'c'sle. He's my boat- puller. But it's to trouble he'll come with Wolf Larsen, as the sparks fly upward. It's meself that knows.
There's a few others like ye in the wide world, and I've seen one or two of 'em. I've been all over, steeple-chasin', sailorman, soldier, pedler, and in the PO-lice; I've pulled the Grand National in Paris, and I've been handcuffed in Hong-Kong; I've seen all the few kinds of women there is on earth and the many kinds of men.
Not I. I met that aged sailorman glad-eyed and beaming, with all the simulated relief at deliverance that a drowning man would display on finding a life-preserver in his last despairing clutch. Here was a man who understood and who would verify my true story to the faces of those sleuth-hounds who did not understand, or, at least, such was what I endeavored to play-act.
"I commend my wife to your care... and Villari is he dead?" "No, Harry," whispered Mrs. Marston, "he is not dead, but badly wounded." "Poor Villari... a born sailorman, though an Italian.... Mr. Raymond, Amy... Let him command.... I should have taken his advice... And give him five hundred pounds, Amy.... You, Mr.
Somewhere, there, in the north-east and north, I knew was a broken, iron coast of rocks upon which the graybeards thundered. And there, in the chart-room, a redoubtable sailorman bent anxiously over a chart as he measured and calculated, and measured and calculated again, our position and our drift. And I knew it could not be. It was not the Samurai but the henchman who was weak and wrong.
A man with less assurance and slighter knowledge of sailorman character might have been less abrupt might have given them a moment in which to reflect. Cap'n Aaron Sproul kept them going did their thinking for them, dizzied their brains by thwacks of the pins, deafened their ears by his terrific language.
"You needn't go to South Brooklyn for the three men we need for the crew to-morrow mornin'. Here's three. One's a sure sailorman, anxious to ship, and the other two'll do. Get Tom to help you upstairs with 'em and get 'em ready. You know the trick. Change their clothes, give 'em a bagful each, and dip their hands in that tar bucket, then wipe most of it off with grease. Get some from the kitchen."
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