enough, at meal times. He deserved his nickname and I avoided him with detestation.
The second mate, a big Norwegian named Olaf Olsen, was a kindly soul, but dull and uncommunicative. He had a companionable eye, but felt neither any need of converse nor any promptings toward it. Speech he never volunteered, questions he answered monosyllabically. One Sunday indeed he so far unbent as to ask if he might borrow one of my books. I told him I doubted if any would please him. He looked them over disappointedly.
"Have you any books of Doomuses?" he queried.
"Doomus?" I repeated after him reflectively.
"You're a scholar, aren't you?" he demanded.
"I aim to be," I said.
"How do you pronounce, D-u-m-a-s?" he inquired.
"I am no Frenchman," I told him, "but Dumás is pretty close to it."
"That's what I said," he shouted, "and they all laughed at me and said 'Doomus, ye damn fool.' Have you any of his books?"
"No," I confessed and he ceased to regard me as worth borrowing from.
Not so Mr. Wilson. Before we ran into the doldrums I had found my sea-legs and exhausted the diversion of learning the name of every bit
