“In 1860,” was his prompt reply.

“And you sailed in the Flying Cloud nine years before that, and this is 1913—why, that was sixty-two years ago,” I charged.

“And I was seven years old,” he chuckled.  “My mother was stewardess on the Flyin’ Cloud .  I was born at sea.  I was boy when I was twelve, on the Herald o’ the Morn , when she made around in ninety-nine days—half the crew in irons most o’ the time, five men lost from aloft off the Horn, the points of our sheath-knives broken square off, knuckle-dusters an’ belayin’-pins flyin’, three men shot by the officers in one day, the second mate killed dead an’ no one to know who done it, an’ drive! drive! drive! ninety-nine days from land to land, a run of seventeen thousand miles, an’ east to west around Cape Stiff !”

“But that would make you sixty-nine years old,” I insisted.

“Which I am,” he retorted proudly, “an’ a better man at that than the scrubby younglings of these days.  A generation of ’em would die under the things I’ve been through.  Did you ever hear of the Sunny South ?—she that was sold in Havana to run slaves an’ changed her name to Emanuela ?”

“And you’ve sailed the Middle Passage!” I cried, recollecting the old phrase.

“I was on the Emanuela that day in Mozambique Channel when the Brisk caught us with nine hundred slaves between-decks.  Only she wouldn’t a-caught us except for her having steam.”

I continued to stroll up and down beside this massive relic of the past, and to listen to his hints and muttered reminiscences of old man-killing and man-driving days.  He was too real to be true, and yet, as I studied his shoulder-stoop and the age-drag of his huge feet, I was convinced that his years were as he asserted.  He spoke of a Captain Sonurs.

“He was a great captain,” he was saying.  “An’ in the two years I sailed mate with him there was never a port I didn’t jump the ship goin’ in an’ stay in hiding until I sneaked aboard when she sailed again.”