The Truth Of The Matter

Smoking Is Bad For You

". . . storm's a-coming."

Harry Albrightson, the captain of the Thomas Hume, breathed heavily in through his pipe, tapping his fingers on the rich, creamy ivory, shaking flakes of black tobacco off. He turned around, staring one of his passengers in the eyes. "I can feel it."

The passenger he was talking to-- a tall, broad-shouldered man with shockingly blonde hair-- blinked down at Albrightson. He was taller than the captain, which stronger men tended to be, but he didn't turn it into something impolite. Good man, Albrightson thought, not to taunt him about his stature. It would have ended badly for him.

"But I can see the sun," the man pointed out, tilting his head back so sunlight sparkled across his face. "There's not gon' be a storm for a while yet, innit?"

"Hm." Albrightson pulled the pipe out from his lips, exhaling. "Maybe so, but I can feel . . . something in the air. Makes my right hip bone ache."

He had never really had anything happen to his right hip bone. It was perfectly fine, just as it always had been. But it made for good ambience, and was helpful during the tourist season. He breathed heavily in through his pipe, the taste of tobacco heavy on his tongue, and wished fervently that these men would leave soon like the tourists did.

The man huffed. "Sir, cap'n, sir, 'scuse me for saying, but don't people usually only have one hip bone?"

The captain hrrm-ed and stroked his long, bushy, captain-like beard. It was something he was very proud of and spent a long time cultivating. "Well, perhaps. However, instead of conceding that fact to a thick moron such as you, I will advise you to shut up and go drink beer with your other lumberjack friends."

The blonde lumberjack, who hadn't really known what the conversation was about, nodded eagerly and stomped down to the cabin to enjoy a good drink. Lumberjacks-- especially mediocre, dumb lumberjacks-- didn't work well with old, wise ship captains anyway.

Still staring out over the water, Albrightson slipped the pipe back into his mouth, inhaling slowly. " . . . it's going to be a wild night," he murmured.

Two hours later, night had fallen. The entirety of the people onboard the Thomas Hume were huddling around an oil lamp, smothering themselves in threadbare blankets and trying not to shiver. The only one who wasn't shivering was Harry Albrightson, who was sitting on a nearby wooden rocking chair and was quite used to the cold of a lake at night.

He didn't have his pipe anymore, but he could still give his wonderful beard a good, long petting as he departed wisdom to the lumberjacks aboard his ship. They were all waiting to hit dock on the other side of Lake Michigan so that they could pass out their bushels of harvested pine trees. It had already been too long of a journey.

"We're gonna get there soon, right?" impatiently asked a man with wild auburn hair, his bangs drooping over his grey eyes.

Albrightson sighed, letting his eyes close so he didn't have to look at their dumb faces. None of them knew ships in any way; it was a little insulting if he was being honest, being asked to steer a group of burly idiots across Lake Michigan for a measly pay of a handful of quarters. The shipping company he worked for must have been insane to assign him to these chowderheads.

Still, those quarters made a mighty fine jingling in his pocket, if he was being honest. And money was money, no matter where you got it from.

So, he supposed he should just act patient. "Yes indeed, we'll get there soon. You just have to be patient."