He was a north of Ireland man, between Scotch and
Irish, rough, loud, humorous, and emotional, not
without sterling qualities, and an expert and careful
sailor. His frame of mind was different indeed from
that of his new shipmates. Instead of making an
unexpected fortune he had lost a berth, and he was
besides disgusted with the rations, and really appalled
at the condition of the schooner. A stateroom door had
stuck the first day at sea, and Mac (as they called
him) laid his strength to it and plucked it from the
hinges.
"Glory!" said he, "this ship's rotten!"
"I believe you, my boy," said Captain Wicks.
The next day the sailor was observed with his nose
aloft.
"Don't you get looking at these sticks," the captain
said, "or you'll have a fit and fall overboard."
Mac turned towards the speaker with rather a wild eye.
"Why, I see what looks like a patch of dry rot up
yonder, that I bet I could stick my fist into," said
he.
"Looks as if a fellow could stick his head into it,
don't it?" returned Wicks. "But there's no good prying
into things that can't be mended.
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