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'This, putting his hand on a backing-bell rope, 'is to sound the fire-alarm; this, putting his hand on a go-ahead bell, 'is to call the texas-tender; this one, indicating the whistle-lever, 'is to call the captain' and so he went on, touching one object after another, and reeling off his tranquil spool of lies. I had never felt so like a passenger before.
'I couldn't find the texas-tender; I had to go all the way to the pantry. 'Derned likely story! Fill up the stove. I proceeded to do so. He watched me like a cat. Presently he shouted 'Put down that shovel! Deadest numskull I ever saw ain't even got sense enough to load up a stove. All through the watch this sort of thing went on.
The 'Paul Jones's' pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room: but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in; showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns and 'look at the river; bright, fanciful 'cuspadores' instead of a broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor; a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head, costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black 'texas-tender, to bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night.
'This, putting his hand on a backing-bell rope, 'is to sound the fire- alarm; this, putting his hand on a go-ahead bell, 'is to call the texas-tender; this one, indicating the whistle-lever, 'is to call the captain' and so he went on, touching one object after another, and reeling off his tranquil spool of lies. I had never felt so like a passenger before.
'I couldn't find the texas-tender; I had to go all the way to the pantry. 'Derned likely story! Fill up the stove. I proceeded to do so. He watched me like a cat. Presently he shouted 'Put down that shovel! Deadest numskull I ever saw ain't even got sense enough to load up a stove. All through the watch this sort of thing went on.
The 'Paul Jones's' pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room: but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in; showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns and 'look at the river; bright, fanciful 'cuspadores' instead of a broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor; a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head, costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black 'texas-tender, to bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night.
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