"Maybe," the man agreed, smiling as he puffed contentedly at his pipe. "And when I felt that way I'd step on to a heaving deck and smell the tarred rope, but there's a mighty big difference between doing it for pleasure and doing it for a living in all kinds of weather. Make no mistake about it, Miss Trent, the fascination of the sea comes from the sea itself, and God's fresh air, and not from shinning up the rigging when the thermometer says ten below zero, and tearing at frozen canvas till your fingers bleed, or having to drive a bunch of dago land-lubbers, that don't know a cleat from a cathead, when something has gone wrong and you're drifting straight on to the rocks."
"But surely, Mr. Keith, there is something fine in having done those things. The magnificent traditions of the sea which have been handed down to us would never have been magnificent unless there were great obstacles to overcome in the creation of them."
"Aye, the sea makes or breaks a man, and she doesn't care which. And if you have red blood in your veins, the worse she treats you the more you love her, so long as you have two arms and two legs to carry on with. It is fine, beyond a doubt, but that isn't going to make me say I wouldn't settle down on my farm if ever I was lucky enough to get the chance."
He was looking at her profile as he spoke—
