With some disappointment he noticed that except
at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer
invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking
fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and
lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these
earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another
to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in
a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew
helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her
stern, Carl at the risk of his life climbed aboard, caught a line,
and lowered the men, one by one, into the rescuing yawl. He could
with perfect equanimity have faced another storm and rescued a
second crew any hour of the day or night, but he could not face a
woman's displeasure. Moreover, what Tom wanted done was law to
Carl. She had taken him out of the streets and given him a home.
He would serve her in whatever way she wished as long as he lived.
He and Gran'pop were fast friends. On rainy days, or when work
was dull in the winter months, the old man would often come into
Carl's little chamber, next the harness-room in the stable, and
sit on his bed by the hour. And Carl would tell him about his
people at home, and show him the pictures tacked over his bed,
those of his old mother with her white cap, and of the young
sister who was soon to be married.
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