"Well, how do you like it?" asked the cook, as he stirred something in a
pot, with a big wooden ladle.
"Fine! but when are we sailing?"
"In about three days we drop down to Bayonne for a cargo of White Rose
oil and then we make a clean jump for Sydney, Australia."
"Around Cape Horn?" I asked, stirred romantically at the thought.
"No. Around the Cape of Good Hope."
* * * * *
Early in the afternoon of the day before we left the dock, as I was
polishing brass on deck, my father appeared before me, as abruptly as a
spirit.
"Well, here he is, as big as life!"
"Hello, Pop!"
I straightened up to ease a kink in my back.
"You had no need to hide this from me, son; I envy you, that's all, I
wish I wasn't too old to do it, myself ... this beats travelling about
the country, selling goods as a salesman. It knocks my dream of having a
chicken farm all hollow, too...."
He drew in a deep breath of the good, sunny harbour air. Sailors were up
aloft, they were singing. The cook was in his galley, singing too. There
were gulls glinting about in the sun.
"Of course you know I almost made West Point once ... had the
appointment ... if it hadn't been for a slight touch of rheumatism in
the joints ..." he trailed off wistfully.
"We've never really got to know each other, Johnnie."
I looked at him.
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