His skin, too, had the unspotted gleaming
whiteness of high vitality.
"He's a reg'lar race horse--a tiger," burst out from one admirer in the
crowd.
The bosun, also stripped of his upper garments, looked all of his great
size, and, moving about, showed himself not altogether lacking in
agility. Lively, indeed, he was for his immense bulk, although, compared
to the pump-man in that, he was like a moose beside a panther. "It ain't
goin' to be so one-sided after all," whispered some one loudly, and
recalled the pump-man's leaping across the hatch that very morning. And
now, as he ducked and turned, seeming never to lack breath for easy
speech, there were others who were beginning to believe it would not be
so one-sided either.
"Speaking of wind-jammers, I remember"--the bosun had rushed past him
like a charging elephant--"hearing my old grandfather tell of seeing a
three-decker manoeuvring once. She'd come into stays about the middle of
the morning watch, he said, and maybe toward three bells in the second
dogwatch they'd have her on the other tack. A ship of the old line she
was, a terrible fighter, if only fighting was done from moorings; but
there were little devils of frigates kept sailing 'round and 'round her.
What? Why don't I stand up? Stand up, is it? Why, man, I don't see where
I've been hove-down yet. Hove-down, no, nor wet my rail yet.
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