The captain
felt as if he should recognize him--but he did not.
He came swinging on until he was opposite the baggage-truck. Then he
stopped and looked searchingly at the bulky form of the man seated upon
it. He stepped closer and looked again. Then, with a twinkle in his
quiet gray eye, he did a most amazing thing--he began to sing. To
sing--not loudly, of course, but rather under his breath. And this is
what he sang:
"Said all the little fishes that swim there below:
'It's the Liverpool packet! Good Lord, let her go!'"
To the average person this would have sounded like the wildest insanity.
But not to Captain Obed Bangs of East Wellmouth. The captain sprang from
the truck and held out his hand.
"Johnnie Kendrick!" he shouted. "It's Johnnie Kendrick, I do believe!
Well, I swan to man!"
The young man laughed, and, seizing the captain's hand, shook it
heartily.
"I am glad you do," he said. "If you hadn't swanned to man I should have
been afraid there was more change in Captain Obed Bangs than I cared to
see. Captain Obed, how are you?"
Captain Obed shook his head. "I--I--" he stammered. "Well, I cal'late my
timbers are fairly strong if they can stand a shock like this. Johnnie
Kendrick, of all folks in the world!"
"The very same, Captain."
"And you knew me right off! Well done for you, John! Why, it's all of
twenty odd year since you used to set on a nail keg in my boathouse
and tease me into singing the Dreadnought chanty.
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