The Story of a Bad Boy | Page 8

which increased my respect
for him; I don't know why, and I didn't know then whether Typhoon
was the name of a vegetable or a profession.
Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my
name was Tom Bailey, upon which he said be was very glad to hear it.
When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wished
me to call him, was a perfect walking picturebook. He had two anchors,
a star, and a frigate in full sail on his right arm; a pair of lovely blue
hands clasped on his breast, and I've no doubt that other parts of his
body were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he was
fond of drawings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste. It
was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio might be
misplaced, or dropped overboard; but Sailor Ben bad his pictures
wherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem,

"With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes" -

was accompanied by music on all occasions.
The two bands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to the
memory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago-and
surely a more touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone.
This caused me to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told
him I should take it as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink
hand and a black hand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked
into the skin with needles, and that the operation was somewhat painful.
I assured him, in an off-hand manner, that I didn't mind pain, and
begged him to set to work at once.
The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his
skill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying
with my request, when my father happened to own the gangway-a
circumstance that rather interfered with the decorative art.
I didn't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben,
for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola
of the Boston State House.
Chapter Four
Rivermouth

It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long
Wharf. Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were
away just then on a war-path, I couldn't determine; but they did not
appear in any great force-in fact, did not appear at all.
In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studying at
New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats,
are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hats to
speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with the

Pilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party.
Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of all
my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from the
aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectations
unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used to
wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers.
While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I
mounted on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As
we came up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled
together on an immense bill, at the top of which was a large building,
the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable
mother-hen surrounded by her brood of many-colored chickens. A
closer inspection did not impress me very favorably. The city was not
nearly so imposing as New Orleans, which stretches out for miles and
miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks of the majestic river.
I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one
another in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose to
remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a
measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down
on the wharf he'd lick me for two cents-not an exorbitant price. But I
didn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as I
was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his head
on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself.
The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfast on
board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon