Although a man whose days had
exceeded the usual space allotted to humanity, the various episodes
of his career footing his age up to nearly one hundred and fifty-
nine years, he scarcely looked it, and was still hale and vigorous.
"Yes," continued Pirate Jim, critically, "I don't think he was any
bigger nor you, Master Chitterlings, if as big, when he stood on
the fork'stle of my ship, and shot the captain o' that East Injymen
dead. We used to call him little Weevils, he was so young-like.
But, bless your hearts, boys! he wa'n't anything to little Sammy
Barlow, ez once crep' up inter the captain's stateroom on a Rooshin
frigate, stabbed him to the heart with a jack-knife, then put on
the captain's uniform and his cocked hat, took command of the ship
and fout her hisself."
"Wasn't the captain's clothes big for him?" asked B. Franklin
Jenkins, anxiously.
The janitor eyed young Jenkins with pained dignity.
"Didn't I say the Rooshin captain was a small, a very small man?
Rooshins is small, likewise Greeks."
A noble enthusiasm beamed in the faces of the youthful heroes.
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