"Yes, far, far."
"Your age?"
"Forty-four years."
"And you are at Port Egmont?"
"I shall have been there three years, come Christmas."
"Did you expect to get on a passing whale-ship?"
"No."
"Then what were you doing here?"
"Nothing, and I did not think of going to sea again."
"Then why seek a berth?"
"Just an idea. The news of the expedition your schooner is going on was spread. I desire, yes, I desire to take part in it—with your leave, of course."
"You are known at Port Egmont?"
"Well known, and I have incurred no reproach since I came here."
"Very well," said the captain. "I will make inquiry, respecting you."
"Inquire, captain, and if you say yes, my bag shall be on board this evening."
"What is your name?"
"Hunt."
"And you are—?"
"An American."
This Hunt was a man of short stature, his weather beaten face was brick red, his skin of a yellowish-brown like an Indian's, his body clumsy, his head very large, his legs were bowed, his whole frame denoted exceptional strength, especially the arms, which terminated in huge hands. His grizzled hair resembled a kind of fur.
