They got through the Canal late in the afternoon; and, during the
playtime between supper and prayers, it seemed as if the boys were keen
on making the most of their last evening on board.
There was a sparring match between Jack Perkins and the boatswain for
heavyweights, and between Dick Gray and Chippie Smith for lightweights.
Then there was wrestling between Bertie Young and Ellsworth, and some
“cock fighting” between the younger boys. After that the boatswain
got out his fiddle, and half a dozen of the crew danced the hornpipe,
both single and double--including the Captain, who, in addition to
the hornpipe, performed the “skipping rope dance” for which he was
especially famous, and which was the envy of all beholders.
“There isn’t a boy on the ship who is as lightfooted as the Captain,”
remarked Mr. Wentworth.
“And there isn’t a man who has a better head on him,” said
Jack Perkins. “Three cheers for Captain Goodfellow!--Cool and
steady!--Always ready! Rah, Rah, Rah! _Good-fel-low!_”
As the cheers arose, all eyes looked around to find the Captain; but he
had a way of disappearing when bouquets were handed around and didn’t
turn up again until it was time for him to take his trick at the wheel.
Meantime, while all the merriment was going on, Billy Brown crept away
from the crowd and went forward of the windlass to think a little by
himself. He was feeling very badly; and, after a while, Dick, who
happened to be standing by the starboard fore-rigging, noticed him
there.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” he asked, and sat down on a coil of rope
beside him.
Brown did not answer at first; and then, with some difficulty, muttered:
“Well--you see--Dick--it’s the swimming!”
And then, changing his manner, as if the floodgates of his grief or his
anger were opened--he broke out in a torrent of words, and Dick hardly
knew whether he was going to cry or challenge him to fight.
“What do you s’pose is the matter with me? I’m scared blue in the
water, and I can’t seem to help it. The old man says I’ve got to get
over it, but I don’t see how I’m going to! Blast you--how do you do it?”
Dick thought for a few seconds and then remarked quietly:
“Well, seems to me I’ve heard that, when you are afraid to do a thing,
there’s only one way out, and that is _to do it_.”
“Isn’t that just what I’m doing?” said Bill, with vehemence. “I plunge
in all right, but it’s after I’ve got in that I’m scared if anything
different happens!”
There was another pause, and a longer one than the last, and then
Dick’s face lit up with a bright smile.
“I have it,” said he; “look, Billy, it’s as plain as the nose on your
face.”
“What?” asked Bill incredulously.
“It’s because _you don’t feel friendly with the water_. Now, don’t
say a word until I tell you what I mean. My Dad, he has a story that
I’ve heard him tell fifty times, about when he was a young man and was
walking along the road for two or three days with two other fellows to
a lumber camp in Maine. He says whenever they came to a village, the
dogs of course would run out to see who they were; and there was one
among them (whom Dad calls Bob) that the dogs would always bark at much
worse than they did at Dad and the other fellow. Well, Bob didn’t like
getting particular attention from the dogs; and, after a while, he got
so cross that he used to put stones in his pocket all ready to throw
at them. Dad and the other fellow kept wondering what it was about
Bob that made the dogs hate him as if he were a natural enemy; and,
finally, they decided it was because Bob _was scared_ of the dogs. Then
they began asking him questions about his home and what he used to do
when he was a boy, and they found that he never had a dog of his own,
and didn’t understand dogs.
“‘I don’t like ’em,’ said he, ‘and I guess I come by it rightly, for
Mother she was fond of cats, and never would have a dog about the
place.’
“Dad,--he mulled over this, and he got more and more sure and certain
that the reason the dogs didn’t like Bob was because he was scared of
them. Dogs like folks who are friendly with ’em, says Dad, and when
you’re scared you’re only thinking about yourself and your own safety,
and so you can’t be friendly.”
“But I don’t understand,” answered Billy. “I can see how you can be
friendly with a dog, but how can you be friendly with the sea when it’s
liable to drown you?”
“How can you be friendly with a dog when he’s liable to bite you?”
retorted Dick. “The sea is no more liable to drown you, if you treat
it right, than the dog is liable to bite you if you’re not afraid of
him.”
Just then Ellsworth and Chippie came up and joined them, and Dick
repeated earnestly to them what he and Brown had been talking about.
“Of course,” said Ellsworth, “you can’t expect to get along in the sea
unless you keep the rules of the sea. A bird knows the rules of the
air, but can’t get along under water because he isn’t made so that he
can keep the rules of the water. But you and I, Bill, are made so that
we can learn the rules of the sea and of the air, as well as those of
the land, if we want to, and aren’t scared to try. You have to have a
brain to keep your balance, wherever you are--and your brain has to
know how to do it; and _it can learn if it isn’t scared_. For instance,
take the rules of the land; you can keep up on the two wheels of a
bicycle so long as you’re moving, because you’ve got a brain; but the
bicycle can’t by itself, and falls over unless you prop it.”
“What’s that got to do with swimming?” asked Billy in a dull tone.
“Why,” answered Ellsworth, “you’ve got to learn to balance _in_ the
water and _on_ the water, just as you do on a bicycle,--only it’s a
little different; and, if you do, _the water will prevent you from
drowning_. When you know how to balance on the water, you can lie down
on it and float, very much as you’d lie down on the floor; and it will
keep you up, so long as your balance is right, in the same way that the
floor does. But the hard thing about it is that you can’t keep your
balance if you’re scared.”
“And,” broke in Dick, “if you’re friendly with the water, you can’t be
scared.”
“That’s a funny thing,” said Brown thoughtfully, “I guess I don’t
understand the water. Just the same as that friend of your Dad’s didn’t
understand dogs. Is that what you mean, Dickie?”
“You bet,” answered Dick, “that’s just right. But you don’t seem to see
that the sea is friendly. All it asks is for you to understand and
keep its rules, the same as you have to keep the regulations on board
ship.”
Brown had brightened up a little during the last part of the
conversation; but, after a while, he grew sober again.
“What are you fellows talking about, anyway? The sea isn’t a man that
can be friendly or unfriendly any more than a table or a chair can. It
hasn’t got as much brains as a dog! It can’t even bark, let alone talk
to a fellow.”
“Do you hear that, Chippie?” asked Dick, with a smile, “he says the sea
can’t talk! It seems to me I’ve heard it roaring and bellowing among
the rocks lots of times. I’ve heard it laughing, too, only it speaks
to your eyes as well as to your ears. It smiles too, sometimes, and
sometimes it looks cross; but, on the whole, it’s a great big friendly
thing, and is a mighty handy help in getting from one place to another.”
Chippie and Ellsworth listened with interest to what Dick was saying,
and it was a wonder to them that Billy didn’t see it just as they did.
“He’s right, when he says he doesn’t understand the sea,” thought Dick.
“The sea not able to speak! You might as well say that the sun isn’t
able to shine and that the stars can’t blink at a fellow.”
At this point Ellsworth and Chippie left them and joined some of the
other boys on the day bunk.
Billy was silent for a long time and Dick sat by, waiting for him to
say something.
“Do you know, Dick,” said Billy, after a long pause, “I’ve never
thought about things that way in my life before! Does it mean that
everything is friendly if you treat it right?”
“Yes,” answered Dick, “something like that.”
“But how about shipwrecks, when hundreds and hundreds of people are
drowned?”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” answered Dick slowly, “if--a good many times--the
laws of the sea were broken; and then, of course--when the right time
comes--death is just what a fellow needs!”
“_What do you mean?_” asked Billy, almost fiercely.
“Well, Dad says death is like changing cars on the railroad. If we
didn’t change cars, we wouldn’t get to where we belong. He says it’s
only a station in life, and the folks who have been friendly with the
other things along the road, are _always friendly with death_.”
“Well, that beats anything I ever heard!” exclaimed Billy. “How do you
know when ‘the right time comes’?”
“Well--there’s a Conductor--he’s friendly, too. He tells you when it’s
time to change cars, and he never makes a mistake. We needn’t worry
about that, Dad says.”
“I’d like to see your Dad, Dick!”
“Maybe you will some day, Bill; he’d like to see you, I’m dead certain.”
“What makes your Dad like that, Dick? My Dad died when I was a little
shaver, but I never heard of _his_ saying such things.”
“Well, maybe my Dad didn’t always feel that way himself. I shouldn’t
wonder, Billy, if he used to have to do a lot of fighting in
himself--something like what you’re doing.”
“I’d like to see him--_sure_!” repeated Brown.
“You could come over any time,” said Dick cordially; “only Sunday would
be the best day. Your town, Northbridge, is the same as ours, only we
generally use the East Northbridge station.”
“I’d like to mighty well! Maybe next Sunday! Has your Dad always been a
farmer?”
“Yes, and he’s a grand farmer, Father is! You ought to see him with his
live stock. There isn’t a calf, or a pup, or a chicken, that he doesn’t
know as well as you know me; and they know him, too. Oh, he’s friendly,
is Dad--and he’s brave, too!”
Just as the “B. M.” of the watch was beginning to blow the call for
prayers, Dick turned to Brown and said:
“Billy, if I were you, when I got scared in the water, I’d just roll
right over on my back and float, and then wait till the scare blew
over.”
“I’ll try it,” said Bill, and slipped down the companionway.