"This schooner's the only thing bigger'n a pinky that's seaworthy in the who!' bloomin' harbor," he sneered. "An' she ain't left her pier fer—how long is it, Cap'n Christy?—fer"—
The old Yankee at the wheel caught him up.
"Look here. Master Kibben," he said mildly, "I'd ruther you'd let that paint alon' there on that rail. Wear an' tear 'll take it off in time, 'thout you pickin' at it." The captain turned again to his contemporaries, sweeping their semicircle with candid blue eyes. "I hate to see folks frettin' an' piddlin' with their fingers," he explained. "If a man ain't anything to make, let him set still an' not distroy."
The youth, abashed, was left to drop pebbles overside and watch the circles that widened on the water and set the sunlight fluttering in oozy, volatile spots of brightness under the vessel's quarter. But his question had started other circles widening in the conversation.
"Why do n't you let her out to some one?" asked an old man who sat, with upright dignity, on the coil of hawsers. Of stiffer
