Part 2 (1/2)
”Wiped off with turps?” The Captain sucked his lip.
”Who did it, Mister?” ”Reefers, I suppose; Them devils do the most pranks in a s.h.i.+p; The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose.”
”I can't take notice of it till he knows.
How does he do his work?” ”Well, no offence; He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense.”
”Painter,” the Captain called; the Dauber came.
”What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?”
”They spoiled my drawings, sir.” ”Well, who's to blame?
The long-boat's there for no one to get at her; You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatter Gear up and down where it's no right to be, And suffer as result, don't come to me.
”Your place is in the round-house, and your gear Belongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things?
Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here.”
”But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings.”
”I want no argument nor questionings.
Go back where you belong and say no more, And please remember that you're not on sh.o.r.e.”
The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away-- They eyed his going with a bitter eye.
”Dauber,” said Sam, ”what did the Captain say?”
The Dauber drooped his head without reply.
”Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry.”
The Mate limped to the rail; like little feet Over his head the drumming reef-points beat.
The Dauber reached the berth and entered in.
Much mockery followed after as he went, And each face seemed to greet him with the grin Of hounds hot following on a creature spent.
”Aren't you a fool?” each mocking visage meant.
”Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say?
It is a crime, and there'll be h.e.l.l to pay.”
He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke; The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest.
”Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke”-- He puffed his pipe--”and let the matter rest.
Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast; Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces, And let this painting business go to blazes.
”What good can painting do to anyone?
I don't say never do it; far from that-- No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.
Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.
Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat; Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck.
Throw paints to h.e.l.l, boy; you belong on deck.”
”That's right,” said Chips; ”it's downright good advice.
Painting's no good; what good can painting do Up on a lower topsail stiff with ice, With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue?
Painting won't help you at the weather clew, Nor pa.s.s your gaskets for you, nor make sail.
Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail.”
The Dauber did not answer; time was pa.s.sing.
He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.
The wind was dropping, and the sea was gla.s.sing-- New realms of beauty waited for his rule; The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.