Briefly, a marine criticaster.
All this was spoken _at_ Dodd--a thing no male does unless he is an awful
snob--and grieved him, it was so unjust. He withdrew wounded to the
little cabin he was entitled to as a passenger, and hugged his treasure
for comfort. He patted the pocket-book, and said to it, "Never _you_
mind! The greater Tartar he is, the less likely to sink you or run you on
a lee shore."
With all his love of discipline, Robarts was not so fond of the ship as
Dodd.
While his repairs were going on he was generally ashore, and by this
means missed a visit. Commodore Collier, one of the smartest sailors
afloat, espied the Yankee makeshift from the quarter-deck of his vessel,
the _Salamanca,_ fifty guns. In ten minutes he was under the _Agra's_
stern inspecting it; then came on board, and was received in form by
Sharpe and the other officers. "Are you the master of this ship, sir?" he
asked.
"No, commodore. I am the first mate: the captain is ashore."
"I am sorry for it. I want to talk about his rudder."
"Oh, _he_ had nothing to do with that," replied Sharpe, eagerly: "that
was our dear old captain: he is on board.
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