When you spoke to Morrison of going home--he was from Dorsetshire--he shuddered.

He said it was dark and wet there; that it was like living with your head and shoulders in a moist gunny-bag.

That was only his exaggerated style of talking.
Morrison was "one of us." He was owner and master of the Capricorn, trading brig, and was understood to be doing well with her, except for the drawback of too much altruism.

He was the dearly beloved friend of a quantity of God-forsaken villages up dark creeks and obscure bays, where he traded for produce.

He would often sail, through awfully dangerous channels up to some miserable settlement, only to find a very hungry population clamorous for rice, and without so much "produce" between them as would have filled Morrison's suitcase.