"You're a landsman at heart, but that can change." Gibson's fingertips trace across the backs of Hickey's hands; the grace of them makes Hickey's knuckles look raw and red. This man's work can be done in white cotton gloves, not fumbling about with a tar-brush. "If you have any more trouble, come find me straightaway."

Six times they've frigged each other, and Hickey's had him twice. Enough to get the measure of a man. Perhaps sweet William suspects that Hickey doesn't live up to his rating -- that he does not pull his own weight, that he fumbles his knots and can scarcely tell a halyard from a bowline -- but even Gibson's harangues now are only a pretense to get him down belowdecks. Perhaps that's all they ever were.

Why doesn't he make him feel it? Why not bring that private knowledge to bear on him more meaningfully? Perhaps the smell of tar reminds him of home. Mr. Gibson is softer on him than their sweated acquaintance warrants. Just this last week, he's been teaching him arithmetic with a slate slung across his knee, and next week he'll teach him to stitch a buttonhole -- sweet William is weaker than he knows.