We were upon the high ground, beyond where the church stands now, and
Prudence, the fisherman's daughter, and Ralph Barrows, her husband,
were with Skipper Benjie when he began; and I had an hour by the watch
to spend. The neighborhood, all about, was still; the only men who were
in sight were so far off that we heard nothing from them; no wind was
stirring near us, and a slow sail could be seen outside. Everything
was right for listening and telling.
"I can tell 'ee what I sid[1] myself, Sir," said Skipper Benjie. "It
is n' like a story that's put down in books: it's on'y like what we
planters[2] tells of a winter's night or sech: but it's _feelun_, mubbe,
an' 'ee won't expect much off a man as could n' never read,--not so
much as Bible or Prayer-Book, even."
[Footnote 1: Saw.]
[Footnote 2: Fishermen.]
Skipper Benjie looked just like what he was thought: a true-hearted,
healthy man, a good fisherman and a good seaman. There was no need of
any one's saying it. So I only waited till he went on speaking.
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