They walk, talk, and dress differently from landsmen. They straddle as
they pace the deck, so as to brace the body and keep their trowsers up
at the same time; their gait is loose, and their dress loose, and
their limbs loose; indeed, they are rather too fond of slack. They
climb like monkeys, and depend more on their paws than their legs.
They tumble up, but never down. They count, not by fingers, it is
tedious, but by hands; they put a part for the whole, and call
themselves hands, for they are paid for the use of them, and not their
heads.
"Though they are two-handed they are not close-fisted fellows. They
despise science, but are fond of practical knowledge. When the sun is
over the foreyard, they know the time of day as well as the captain,
and call for their grog, and when they lay back their heads, and turn
up the bottom of the mug to the sky, they call it in derision taking
an observation. But though they have many characteristics in common,
there is an individuality in each that distinguishes him from the
rest. He stands out in bold relief--I by myself, I. He feels and
appreciates his importance. He knows no plural. The word 'our' belongs
to landsmen; 'my' is the sailor's phrase--my ship, my captain, my
messmate, my watch on deck, 'my eyes!' 'you lubber, don't you know
that's me?' I like to listen to their yarns and their jokes, and to
hear them sing their simple ditties.
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