He weighs about
eighteen stone, rather more than less. He is a good-natured sort of a
chap, amazingly ungenteel, not much of an officer, not much of a sailor,
but a devilish good hand at the trencher. But he's only part of the
concern; he has his wife on board, who is a red-herring sort of a lady,
and very troublesome to boot. What makes her still more annoying is,
that she has a _piano_ on board, very much out of _tune_, on which she
plays very much out of _time_. Holystoning is music compared with her
playing: even the captain's spaniel howls when she comes to the high
notes; but she affects the fine lady, and always treats the officers
with music when they dine in the cabin, which makes them very glad to
get out of it."
"But, O'Brien, I thought wives were not permitted on board."
"Very true, but there's the worst part in the man's character: he knows
that he is not allowed to take his wife to sea, and, in consequence, he
never says she _is_ his wife, or presents her on shore to anybody. If
any of the other captains ask how Mrs To is to-day? 'Why,' he replies,
'pretty well, I thank you;' but at the same time he gives a kind of
smirk, as if to say, 'She is not my wife;' and although everybody knows
that she is, yet he prefers that they should think otherwise, rather
than be at the expense of keeping her on shore; for you know, Peter,
that although there are regulations about wives, there are none with
regard to other women."
"But does his wife know this?" inquired I.
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