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"
My
name
is
Johnson
,
not
Yonson
,
"
he
said
,
in
very
good
,
though
slow
,
English
,
with
no
more
than
a
shade
of
accent
to
it
.
There
was
mild
protest
in
his
pale
blue
eyes
,
and
withal
a
timid
frankness
and
manliness
that
quite
won
me
to
him
.
"
Thank
you
,
Mr.
Johnson
,
"
I
corrected
,
and
reached
out
my
hand
for
his
.
He
hesitated
,
awkward
and
bashful
,
shifted
his
weight
from
one
leg
to
the
other
,
then
blunderingly
gripped
my
hand
in
a
hearty
shake
.
"
Have
you
any
dry
clothes
I
may
put
on
?
"
I
asked
the
cook
.
"
Yes
,
sir
,
"
he
answered
,
with
cheerful
alacrity
.
"
I
'll
run
down
an
'
tyke
a
look
over
my
kit
,
if
you
've
no
objections
,
sir
,
to
wearin
'
my
things
.
"
He
dived
out
of
the
galley
door
,
or
glided
rather
,
with
a
swiftness
and
smoothness
of
gait
that
struck
me
as
being
not
so
much
cat-like
as
oily
.
In
fact
,
this
oiliness
,
or
greasiness
,
as
I
was
later
to
learn
,
was
probably
the
most
salient
expression
of
his
personality
.
"
And
where
am
I
?
"
I
asked
Johnson
,
whom
I
took
,
and
rightly
,
to
be
one
of
the
sailors
.
"
What
vessel
is
this
,
and
where
is
she
bound
?
"
"
Off
the
Farallones
,
heading
about
sou-west
,
"
he
answered
,
slowly
and
methodically
,
as
though
groping
for
his
best
English
,
and
rigidly
observing
the
order
of
my
queries
.
"
The
schooner
Ghost
,
bound
seal-hunting
to
Japan
.
"
"
And
who
is
the
captain
?
I
must
see
him
as
soon
as
I
am
dressed
.
"
