Enjoying his work, the life was not an unpleasant one
for the mucker. The men of the forecastle were of the kind
he had always known--there was no honor among them, no
virtue, no kindliness, no decency. With them Billy was at
home--he scarcely missed the old gang. He made his
friends among them, and his enemies. He picked quarrels,
as had been his way since childhood. His science and his
great strength, together with his endless stock of underhand
tricks brought him out of each encounter with fresh laurels.
Presently he found it difficult to pick a fight--his messmates
had had enough of him. They left him severely alone.
These ofttimes bloody battles engendered no deep-seated
hatred in the hearts of the defeated. They were part of
the day's work and play of the half-brutes that Skipper
Simms had gathered together. There was only one man
aboard whom Billy really hated. That was the passenger,
and Billy hated him, not because of anything that the man
had said or done to Billy, for he had never even so much
as spoken to the mucker, but because of the fine clothes and
superior air which marked him plainly to Billy as one of that
loathed element of society--a gentleman.
Billy hated everything that was respectable.
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