All that night I walked the streets and roads of Cape Ann, walking where
my eyes would lose no sight of that sea to which I had been born, and
thinking, thinking, thinking always to the surge and roar of it; and in
the morning I went down to where Hugh Glynn's vessel lay in dock; and
Hugh Glynn himself I found standing on the string-piece, holding by the
hand and feeding candy to the little son of one of his crew, the while
half a dozen men were asking him, one after the other, for what I, too,
had come to ask.
My turn came. "I never met you to speak to before, Captain Glynn," I
began, "but I was a friend of Arthur Snow's, and I was hopeful for the
chance to ship with you in Arthur's place."
"My name is Simon Kippen," I went on, when he made no answer. "I was in
John Snow's kitchen when you came in last night."
"I know"--he waved the hand that wasn't holding the little boy--"I know.
And"--he almost smiled--"you're not afraid to come to sea with me?"
"Why more afraid," I said, "than you to take me with you?"
"You were a great friend of Arthur's?"
"A friend to Arthur--and more if I could," I answered.
He had a way of throwing his head back and letting his eyes look out, as
from a distance, or as if he would take the measure of a man. 'Twas so
he looked out at me now.
"He's a hard case of a man, shouldn't you say, Simon Kippen, who would
play a shipmate foul?"