Howard Pease THE TATTOOED MAN

A tale of strange adventures, befalling Tod Moran, mess boy of the tramp steamer "Araby," upon his first voyage from San Francisco to Genoa, via the Panama canal

Pease, Howard, 1894-1974

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Contents:

PART ONE

I. Missing and Guilty .................. 3

II. Grinning Dragons ................. 12

III. S.S. “Araby” ...................... 22

IV. The Cabin Aft .................... 35

V. Outward Bound ................... 45

VI. Man Overboard! ................. 56

VII. The Lifeboat .................... 68

PART TWO. THE FIGHT IN THE FORECASTLE

I. Southern Waters ..................... 85

II. The Enmity of Red Mitchell ........ 98

III. Sharks ............................... 106

IV. Mock Woo of Panama ............. 121

V. To Colon! To Colon! ................ 132

VI. Tod Shows His Fists ................ 141

VII. Black Gang vs. Deck Crew ....... 154

VIII. Captain Tom Jarvis ............... 163

PART THREE. ON THE TRAIL OF NEIL MORAN

I. A Secret Meeting in Marseilles ...... 177

II. The Third-Class Compartment ..... 187

III. At the Villa Paradis ................. 199

IV. The Prisoner ........................ 208

V. Escape ................................ 214

VI. The Story of the Annie Jamison .. 230

VII. Shanghai Passage ................... 240

PART FOUR. THE DOOMED SHIP

I. High Adventure ....................... 253

II. Mr. Hawkes Shows His Hand ........ 264

III. In the Stokehold ..................... 275

IV. Midnight .............................. 288

V. Abandon Ship! ........................ 299

VI. "I Take Command, Mr. Hawkes" ... 312

VII. Making Port ......................... 324

PART ONE

CHAPTER I MISSING AND GUILTY

SEA fog hazed like spindrift along the San Francisco water front. Tod Moran, coming from the echoing halls of the Ferry Building to the Embarcadero, paused uncertainly upon the damp pavement. On train and ferry, he had been leaping gloriously through pages of high romance with a gentleman adventurer and his "noble, brave men of the sea," and now, upon stepping out of the rose-tinted covers of his book, he was momentarily startled, as though he had strayed into another world.

About him were the strange, muffled sounds of a February morning when the city is smothered in mist: the distant clang of cable cars, the hoarse cries of newsboys, the dull rumble of trucks and drays passing moment, debating what he should say to the manager. After all, perhaps his fears were groundless; his brother might have had a bad passage out, and in port, of course, a purser was always busy. Yet Neil had never failed to write before. He knew how his younger brother looked forward to receiving a letter stamped Marseilles or Genoa or Port Said. Perhaps Neil was ill with fever again—that jungle fever which he had contracted upon a voyage up the Amazon for cacao. With renewed anxiety, Tod returned to the office and opened its begrimed glass door.

Behind a counter facing the entrance, a girl sat typing, her slender hands flying deftly over the keys. She glanced up from her machine with a questioning smile. Her eyes were kind, Tod saw, and her hair the colour of bronze.

"Could I—could I see the manager?" Tod stammered.

"He's outside just now," the girl answered quickly. "Will you wait?"

Tod seated himself on a bench near the door. His gaze strayed past the girl and settled upon a glass door leading to a rear office. In black letters on the glass were the words:

Jasper Swickard, Manager

At the sight of the name, Tod's restlessness increased. With a nervous movement of his hand, he rose and crossed to the counter. "Do you think," he asked, "that the manager will be back soon?"

"Oh, yes; he's just outside on the Araby."

"Is that the ship?"

"Yes; you'll find Mr. Swickard there—if it's very important." A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"It is important," Tod rejoined. "I'm looking for my brother. It's been several months since I've heard from him."

At his words, the girl turned and directed upon him a startled gaze. The smile left her lips. "Your brother?" she uttered softly. "And his name?"

"Neil Moran."

Tod, leaning over the counter, saw the blood drain suddenly from her face. Her glance fluttered past him out the door to the wharf; then she rose and quickly crossed to the counter. "Of course; you're Tod," she said with a little catch in her voice. "He told me of you—often."

"Neil? You know my brother?" Tod questioned eagerly.

The girl glanced over her shoulder and raised a warning hand. "We've only a moment. Don't let Mr. Swickard know I've been talking to you."

"Yes, but Neil! Where is he?" Involuntarily, he lowered his voice to match her tone. "What's happened?"

"I wish I knew. . . . Hush—Mr. Swickard!"

She slipped back to her desk, and a light run of chatter came from her lips. "In just a moment. You don't mind waiting, do you? He's very busy this morning."

Tod looked up. The outer door had opened and the manager of the European-Pacific Company entered. Crossing to a desk, he hurriedly glanced through some papers in a file. Tod watched him closely. He saw a slender, well-dressed man of thirty-five or forty, with sleek dark hair over eyes narrow and crafty.

"Mr. Swickard," said the girl, "a young man to see you."

"I'm busy, Miss Murray, as you see," snapped the manager. "What's he want?"

Tod spoke up. "I wanted to ask you about—my brother."

"Your brother?" The man turned slowly to face the boy; his beady black eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Who are you?" he said in even tones. "What's your name?"

"Moran—Tod Moran, sir."

Mr. Swickard stared impassively. Only his long white fingers, which gripped the desk behind him, gave evidence that he was disconcerted.

It was Tod who first broke the silence. "I came to ask you about my brother—about Neil."

Mr. Swickard's smooth-shaven face, dark where the beard showed through, broke into a smile. "So Neil Moran has a brother I I didn't know he had any relatives."

"Oh, yes," said Tod. "There's just the two of us."

"Oh, I see."

Tod followed his glance to the girl at the typewriter. She was bending over her shorthand notes but Tod knew that she was listening, watching.

Mr. Swickard frowned. "Come into my office, Moran. I'm very sorry—but I have unpleasant news for you." He turned to his private office.

Tod cast a frightened glance at the girl; in her eyes, he saw reflected the fear that clutched his heart. As he stumbled through a swinging gate past the counter, the girl met him with bravely lifted head. She said not a word, but Tod read in her white, strained expression her warning: "Careful! Something's wrong. Find out!"

The private office of the manager of the European-Pacific Steamship Company was a tiny place containing only an old roll-top desk and two chairs. The manager seated himself and, swinging round, motioned Tod to the other chair. The boy faced the gray light of a window through which the bow of the S. S. Araby was just visible. Mr. Swickard's face, he noted, was in the shadow.

"So you are Neil Moran's brother," began the manager, as if he meant to be friendly, even though he had a sad and unpleasant duty to perform. "Where do you live?"

Tod gulped. "At Stockton, on the San Joaquin. I've been going to high school there—and working."

"Your brother, I suppose, helped you—financially?"

"Yes, sir. I never earned quite enough to keep me going, so every month Neil sent me something. He wanted me to get an education. He was going to help me through the university, too."

Mr. Swickard regarded him with apparent unconcern. "Well, that's too bad. You probably won't be able to go on with your schooling—now."

"You mean— Neil? Something's happened to Neil?" Tod's hands trembled; as he leaned forward his face grew pallid. "What is it, Mr. Swickard? Tell me—where is Neil?"

A smile, cold, indifferent, settled upon the man's thin lips. "I'm sure I don't know, my boy, or I'd tell you. In fact, I'd like to get these hands on him—the curl"

In his quick sense of relief, Tod scarcely noted the man's last word. "He's safe, then?" he cried.

Mr. Swickard did not answer. He met the boy's anxious, questioning glance with a gaze as sharp as steel. In those relentless eyes, Tod saw bitter animosity reflected. Bewildered, he rose and stepped back against the thin boards of the wall.

"What—what do you mean, Mr. Swickard?" he stammered, with dry lips.

"Neil Moran has absconded," the manager announced coolly. "That's what I mean—run off with the ship's money! Now I understand why he wanted more—to send his young brother to college."

Tod choked with astonishment and anger. "It's a lie!" he cried hotly. "It's a lie, I tell you! Neil would never do that. I know it!"

"Now, don't get excited, Moran," Mr. Swickard smoothly went on as he raised his hand to stroke his sleek black hair. "Sit down and let's talk it over. Of course, I realize that this must be a blow to you—so sudden, you know, and—unexpected."

Tod did not sit down. He stood outlined against a shipping guide upon the wall, his head held high, his eyes blazing scorn at his tormentor. "All right, Mr. Swickard. Go on!" he challenged. "Tell me about it. I'm listening."

The manager coughed slightly. "It hurts me deeply," he began in a suave voice, "to inform so youthful a person as yourself, Moran, of the guilt of a brother. Truth to tell, it was also a surprise to me. Neil Moran, as you know, was purser on our cargo carrier, the Panama, a much larger steamer than the one moored outside. The Panama sailed by way of the Canal for New York and Liverpool. I began to suspect your brother of crooked entries soon after. I cabled to England, but the ship had already departed. My agent there sent a wireless to the captain, explaining matters. Unfortunately, he failed to act and unwittingly allowed your brother to escape at the next port of call." Mr. Swickard paused and, taking a long cigar from his pocket, lighted it.

Tod, with fast-beating heart, watched the man puff slowly. "At what port, Mr. Swickard?" he asked in as calm a tone as he could muster.

"Bordeaux. His ship was bound for Mediterranean ports."

"Neil is in France, then?"

"I suppose so. We did not put the police upon his trail, though I believe now that we should have done so. He's only twenty-three or four, isn't he? Well, we thought perhaps he'd learned a lesson. You realize, of course, that he is finished as far as his future is concerned with ships out of San Francisco. Too bad—he was a bright young fellow, too."

Tod let the words sink in. Neil guilty of embezzlement? Never! Not if he knew him—and who knows a fellow better than a brother does! No, in spite of the unruffled voice and the glib story, Tod was not convinced. He decided, however, to say nothing of this just then.

"It's queer that Neil hasn't dropped me a line from France," Tod rejoined. "He always did at every port—a post card, at least."

A smile twisted the man's lips and eyebrows. "Don't you see?—he is ashamed. You may never hear from him—for a long time."

Something in the tone, something keen and cruel as a sword thrust, made Tod inwardly tremble. Was this a threat? A conviction? Whatever it was, it made the boy certain of one thing—Jasper Swickard knew more about Neil than he told.

"Well, my boy," continued the manager, "what are you going to do now?" He leaned forward, a questioning expression upon his dark, thin face.

"Oh, I don't know—really. Go back to Stockton, I guess."

"Yes, that's the best thing for you. Go back to your job and stick there. That's the only way to be successful. Only don't follow in your brother's footsteps—or you'll get into trouble."

Tod's face flamed. "I'll never believe that of him —never I... Good-day, Mr. Swickard. But I'm not going home. I'm going to find my brother —I'm going to find Neil."

CHAPTER II GRINNING DRAGONS

IN THE outer office, the girl looked up from her typewriter. "I want to talk with you," she whispered quickly. "Go straight across the wharf to the bunkers. Wait there!" Almost at once, she turned to her shorthand notes; the keys of her typewriter clicked in cadence.

Without a word, Tod passed out to the gray wharf where the fog pressed about him like the gloom about—his heart. Mr. Swickard's story, Neil's guilt—what did it mean? What was the mystery behind his brother's disappearance?

Safely screened behind the coal bunkers, he watched the little office, and presently he saw Jasper Swickard come out and drive off in an automobile. A few minutes later, the girl came hurrying toward him. Her eyes were starry with eagerness; her voice was breathless.

"I listened—I heard it all," she said defiantly. "Well, do you believe it?"

"No—no!"

"You're right, Tod. It's a lie—a lie!"

Tod looked keenly at her. With a sudden flood of thankfulness, he realized that here was a friend and an ally.

"Neil's alive, thank God," she went on; "of that I'm certain. But where he is, or how—"

"What's it all about?" the youth queried, bewildered.

"Listen, Tod, it's this company that's crooked—not Neil. I have no proof, but I know it! Ever since I came here to work, a year ago, I felt something was wrong."

Tod stared. "You mean the European-Pacific Steamship Company?"

"Yes. The name sounds big, doesn't it? It really is a flimsy little firm, though—and only a few years old. It had its birth during wartime. It has only two freighters: the Panama and the Araby. These men are crooks, I tell you; and what they've done to Neil " She paused and pressed her hands together till the knuckles showed white.

"If I could only find him!" Tod began. "I'll do anything, Miss—Miss—"

"Murray," she helped. "Sheila Murray."

"Anything, Miss Murray. What can I do?" He gazed about him helplessly. His last words to Mr. Swickard now seemed boyish indeed.

"There's Captain Ramsey," broke in the girl. "He's going into the office. I must run. Wait for me here."

Tod watched her till she entered the office, then he seated himself on an iron bollard near by to think things over. Strange! What did it all mean? Neil had sailed as purser on the Panama six months before. It was his second trip on that boat. He had visited Tod in Stockton and had seemed as gay, as care-free as always. Then this silence.

Tod raised his eyes. The Panama had berthed at this very dock. He rose and strolled forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his book beneath one arm. Another freighter lay at her moorings there now, with a dozen longshoremen at work loading her. A donkey engine screeched; a winch whirred; a great wooden arm came from the steamer and, picking up several boxes in a rope net, swung the cargo across the water and deposited it down the forward hatch.

Entranced for a moment, Tod watched the scene. Here was a steamer making ready for sea, her single funnel sending forth a thin spiral of black smoke to mingle with the leaden mist about her. She was filling her holds with mysterious cargo to be taken to some far port of the world—Hong Kong, perhaps, or Sydney—London or Constantinople. It was such a picture, as Neil had told him of, but never before had he been fortunate enough to see. He breathed with delight; a sense of rapture, surging through him, mounted to his brain.

On the ship's bow he made out the word: Araby. The freighter Araby of San Francisco! The name brought to his nostrils a breath of the East, a perfume of spices and sandalwood, a vision of enchanted azure waters and swarming ports, of flashing golden sunlight and heavy tropical heat. What a marvellous vessel she was!

His eyes ran eagerly over her. Her steel hull was brick-red with rust; her wooden superstructure, once white, was now a dirty gray. She was blunt nosed, obviously built for her carrying capacity; she was old, too, and battered by seas until now she appeared like an ancient, fabulous sea horse come home from the wars in honour, her last days of repose well earned. No days of rest and decay, however, awaited her here; she was being loaded again for a distant port. Perhaps this was the end she desired: to die, not peacefully in the shallows of Sausalito, but bravely upon the high seas, her bows breasting the swell of a coming storm. Possibly, Tod instinctively caught the feeling of this ocean tramp bound by stout ropes and cables to the wharf. To him she was romance and adventure, all the glamour of an immortal galleon about to break bondage and nose her way past headlands to the open sea.

A boatswain's whistle suddenly shrilled near by. At once the derrick hoisted its net of cargo. Tod, at the opportunity, darted past the group of toiling stevedores to the edge of the wharf, back of the cabins amidships. He wanted to see the Araby more closely. Yes, she was just such a vessel as Neil had told him of, only not so large, of course. There, above him, was the bridge where the captain walked; there were the wheel and chart room behind; there was the boat deck with lifeboats swinging upon davits. Below this, back of those portholes, were the officers' quarters, and forward would be the forecastle where the crew bunked.

A sudden clatter of tinware focussed his attention upon the cabins amidships. In a narrow sheltered alleyway, an open door showed a line of pots and pans.

"It must be the kitchen," Tod thought. "No—the galley, Neil called it. Gosh, what a racketI Somebody's getting killed!"

Indeed, from the noise, it was apparent that a battle of some sort was ensuing in the ship's galley. A figure abruptly issued from the door and rolled down the alleyway. Next came a volley of curses such as Tod had never before heard. They continued to roll forth like an enemy's bombardment at dawn. The voice was deep, bellowing, thunderous.

"Golly, this is the real stuff!" Tod acknowledged to himself. "That's a sure-enough sailor!"

For a second, the voice died down, and Tod saw the figure on the deck pull itself together and rise. It proved to be a Chinese youth with a yellow, terror-stricken face. At his first movement toward the open door, the abuse at once recommenced.

"Drop the butter, will you—you blasted heathen!" roared the voice. "Git out! D'yuh hear? Git, before I twist off yer dirty yellow face!"

The unlucky culprit who had dropped the precious butter gave a jump for the ship's rail. Tod thought for a horrified moment that the fellow meant to leap into the black, greasy waters below. But he didn't. He cowered there, turning terrified eyes down the alleyway.

"Me no mean to I" he gasped in a sibilant whisper. "Ming work allee time. Me can do."

"Can do!" bellowed the voice like thunder. "Yeh, you blasted Chink, you can do one thing—you git!"

Tod's spellbound gaze left the Chinese boy and went to the galley door beyond. His eyes widened in amazement. The owner of the voice stood in the doorway.

It was evidently low tide, and the freighter heavily loaded, for the main deck was almost level with the wharf. Tod stared. Just a few feet away stood the half-naked figure of a man. He was of huge stature, clothed only in a pair of short rolled seamen's pants. His great hairy legs were firmly planted upon the deck; his herculean shoulders gleamed from the heat of the galley; his teeth flashed angrily in a flushed face as he emitted another volley of oaths.

It was no longer the curses that amazed Tod; neither was it the massive tower of strength standing so near him. As in a trance, he gazed at the strange pictures which appeared painted upon the man's body.

"Why—he's tattooed!" Tod muttered. "Tattooed —all over!"

It was true. The cook's torso, from the waist up, was a mass of minute tattoo work. A Chinese dragon of red and green lay coiled upon his body with two long necks writhing up to the man's immense chest, where the evil heads grinned broadly. The thing was uncanny. As the man in his anger breathed heavily, the two-headed dragon seemed to twist and sway, the red eyes to dart fire and hatred.

"I won't have a Chink in this galley," bawled the cook. "Gut me, if I will. Git out—and git quick! Savee?" He threw out a hairy arm, muscular as a blacksmith's, and Tod saw that a blue snake lay wound about it. The other arm was a network of stars, like the quivering spiral of the Milky Way.

"Holy hemlock!" gasped Tod. "He ought to be in a circus. I'd pay a quarter to see him, any day!"

The Chinese boy gave the cook a supplicating glance. "Me good boy," he said in his queer pidgin English. "Me can do. Me work long time in house in Flisco."

"In a house!" roared the tattooed man. "I'm a swab-headed deck hand if he ain't said a house! Blast yer yellow hide! You git—before I throw a cleaver at yuh."

The Chinese boy edged along the rail. "Yes—me go. Me no likee this ship. Goo-bye!"

Tod watched him dive into a doorway and appear a moment later with a bundle. He pattered along the deck to the gangway and came ashore. Tod smiled; but as his gaze came back to the huge figure of the tattooed man, the smile vanished. The cook's eyes were turned upon him in a way that froze the boy to the spot. He felt as a tiny beastie of the wood might feel when suddenly confronted by a barbaric jungle monster. Unconsciously, he shuddered, repelled yet fascinated.

The cook gave a short, deep laugh and disappeared into the galley. Tod breathed more freely. "Golly, what a man!" he muttered, as he made his way back to the bunkers.

Sheila Murray was already coming toward him. "Why—what's wrong?" she asked. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"A ghost? Oh, no—just a tattooed man," Tod answered. "What's the news?"

The girl regarded him intently. "Tod Moran, have you ever wanted to go to sea?"

"Go to sea!" he echoed. "I've always wanted to! I've dreamed about it—read travel books and sea books galore. Neil always wanted me to stay in school, though."

"Well, you're going to sea now—if you will."

"Now?"

"Yes, you can sail to-morrow morning as mess boy on the freighter Araby."

"Mess boy on the Araby!"

"Yes—don't repeat my words like a ninny." She smiled wistfully. "Oh, how I envy you! I wish I weren't a girl. But I am; so here I must stay. But you, Tod Moran, can sail for the Mediterranean by way of the Panama Canal—if you will."

Tod's eyes glowed. "Just watch me. And you think I might find Neil?"

"I don't know—but it's a chance. Listen: Mr. Hawkes, the mate, was second officer on the Panama. He knew Neil. He must know what happened. He left the steamer in Marseilles and came home on a Dollar boat when the Panama went on to South Africa. Make a friend of Mr. Hawkes. Get the truth from him. Find when Neil left ship, and trace him through the shipping offices or the American Consul."

"I'll do my best," Tod returned, athrob with hope. "How will I get the job?"

"You already have it. Captain Ramsey just came into the office and said the cook demanded a new mess boy. He's going to get rid of the Chinaman to-day."

"He already has. The Chink just left."

"Good. I told Captain Ramsey that I had a young friend who was just the person for a ship's boy. You'll make the beds in the officers' quarters, wait on the table, and help the cook."

Tod gulped. "Help the cook!"

"Didn't I tell you not to repeat my words?" Sheila Murray laughed. "You won't mind peeling potatoes, will you?"

"No," Tod murmured weakly. "I'll do anything for Neil. But the cook—that tattooed man?"

"Yes, isn't he a scream? Oh, if only Barnum were alive!"

Tod glanced across to the Araby, where the derrick was hoisting cargo. He could vaguely make out the galley portholes. "I was just thinking," he said, swallowing hard, "that I'd hate to be in that Chinee boy's place in the galley—and now I'm there! By golly, I'll be working with a cannibal!"

"You're almost seventeen, aren't you, Tod? Old enough, surely, to look out for yourself. Oh, well, if you're afraid—"

"I'm not. I'll go."

"Then go down immediately to the Seamen's Bureau and sign on. You'll see Captain Ramsey there. And listen—tell him you'll have to get your clothes, so you can't come aboard till after dark."

"So I won't—"

"Yes, so you won't see Mr. Swickard again. He mustn't know. And he won't, for he leaves to-night for New York. Now, go straight to the Seamen's Bureau at Pier 1."

Tod hesitated a moment. "You're the real stuff," he stammered at last. "I—I can't begin to thank you."

"You needn't bother," she answered. "Good-bye, Tod Moran, cabin boy."

He turned away into the fog. A hand reached out and grasped his own as she added: "Good-bye, Tod Moran—cook's help!"

CHAPTER III S.S. “ARABY”

AT THE Seamen's Bureau, Tod was signed on the ship's articles as mess boy of the S. S. Araby of San Francisco.

"Report on board at once," said Captain Ramsey. "The mate will give you your orders."

"Yes, sir," answered Tod. "But my clothes—I'll have to get them. It'll be evening before I can get back."

Tod gave the captain a searching look. Somehow, he was disappointed. The commander of the Araby was a tall, thin, bleary-eyed man of middle age, certainly not the usual forceful personality that Tod imagined should pace a bridge at sea. He had evidently been drinking, too, for he lurched slightly as he turned away with a gruff, "All right," thrown over his shoulder.

Tod, aglow with joy and expectation, left the office. He had done it! He was a sailor on an ocean tramp. All those rose-tinted dreams of high adventure, those glorious visions of his youth, were about to be realized. No longer need he sit in his firelit room and improvise pictures of Tod Moran standing on the rolling bridge of a liner as it steamed across wintry seas; no longer need he conjure up mythical fancies of Southern isles rising, palm-covered, from the trembling blue of tropic seas. Now he was going there. By golly—by golly! He was a sailor!

Outside, several men lolled about the dock. They strolled his way as he went whistling toward the Ferry Building.

"Got a berth?" queried a grizzled seaman.

"Yes," Tod answered gaily. "I sail to-morrow."

"What on?"

"The Araby."

A series of laughs rose from the little group gathering about him.

"The Araby! That tub? Oh, Gawd!"

"Poor kid—he's done for."

Tod surveyed them in surprise. "Why, what's wrong?" he asked. "Isn't she a good ship?"

"Good? Listen to 'im!" jeered a voice. "Say, that old tramp's done for. She'll never make this port again—or any other neither. We'se all turned down berths on her. Her boilers are liable to blow up at any old time, and as for her hull—well, it's rotten."

"Ain't that hard luck fer yuh!" chimed in another. "And him just a kid, too. He'll never see Frisco no more. Too bad."

Tod tried to smile at the sad faces. "Aw, she looks like a fine ship. She's not that bad, is she?"

"She ain't? Say, they can't never get a crew for her. Always changing mates and skippers, too. Just you wait till she hits a swell—you'll know then as how we warned you. Well, so long. Too bad. Too bad."

Tod hurried away from their commiserating voices. He pulled his coat collar up. Gosh, what a fog! Cold, too. So the Araby was a rotten tub! And her captain smelled of too much liquor. And her cook was a tattooed savage. Where were his visions now?

About noon the fog lifted, and with it Tod's spirits rose. He strolled through Sailor Town, then took a street car to the Cliff House where he watched the seals playing round on the rocks. At four o'clock he saw the mist sweeping in from the sea and, when he returned to the Embarcadero, the city was again enveloped in its thick gray blanket.

He ate his supper in a chop house frequented by the fiff-raff of the water front. Yarns of ships and shipping were tossed along the counter with the food. One old sailor had been on the beach in Singapore for six months. "Keep away from that blasted port, kid!" Another had been stranded on a South Sea Island and was sorry he ever left. "A white man's a man there; here he's only a dog!" Tod ate more than was good for him of the cold, greasy food.

When he came out, the lamplighter had already made his rounds; along the water front the flickering lights tried in vain to pierce the thick damp atmosphere. Tod picked up his suitcase and the blankets he had purchased and trudged slowly along the docks to Pier 43. The wharf office was silent and dark, but a light burned at the gangway. With a scuffling sound, Tod dragged his dunnage across to the deck of the Araby, whose dim superstructure he could vaguely make out.

He paused as a figure detached itself from the gloom near the forward hatch and came toward him.

"Who's there?" It was the watchman's voice.

"I'm the new mess boy," Tod answered. "Captain Ramsey told me to report to the mate."

The watchman snickered. "The chief mate ain't here. He's gettin' drunk, most probably, like the rest of this blasted crew. The third mate's the only officer aboard. They makes me stand watch—and this the last night in port!" He swore softly.

"What'd I better do?" Tod asked.

"Do? Oh, Gawd! Are you a green one?" He came closer to view the boy. "Well, you don't look so bad. Take your things and throw 'em in a bunk in the seamen's fo'c'sle. Don't get the one on the port bow—that belongs to the Black Gang." He motioned the boy forward.

Tod hesitated. "The port bow?"

"Oh, what a lubber!" The watchman sighed deeply. "The port's the left side goin' for'ard, and the sta'b'rd's the right."

With tired arms, Tod dragged his things toward the ship's bows. Suddenly, he was brought up against an iron wall in which he glimpsed two doors. The one to the right he swung back, on creaking hinges. All was silent and dim within the forecastle. He threw his blankets below, then made his way down the three iron steps. He found himself in a small triangular compartment, tiered on each side with a double row of bunks. A single electric bulb shed its dim rays upon a littered table fastened to the floor in the centre, upon piles of clothing strewn about. A long guttural snore from a bunk on his right told Tod that at least one of the crew was aboard. Above him a frowsy head looked out and a sleepy voice with a cockney accent said, "Hallo, mitey," and vanished.

Tod, making the rounds of the bunks, discovered that these two were all of the crew in evidence. Upon nearly every mattress, however, sprawled a blue dunnage bag; evidently, in this way, the seamen claimed their beds. Tod found an empty one near the peak, a top bunk, and piled his blankets upon it.

"Better make your bed, mitey," said the cockney voice across the top row. "Yer don't 'ave no servants on this bloomin' ship, y'know." He pointed to the straw mattress. "Ye'll be a lucky bloke if that donkey's breakfast ain't got bloomin' livestock in it."

Tod laughed. He pulled aside the greasy brown light-curtain on its piece of string, whipped the straw mattress into shape, and spread his blankets on it. "Why aren't you ashore?" he asked in a friendly tone. "Everybody else seems to be." He glanced up at the man, who was leaning on one elbow, smoking a cigarette.

"Blimey, ain't this luck?" returned the other. "My duds all pawned and not a blarsted penny left to my nime. And me from Lunon for th' fust time! Say, ye ain't got an extra blanket, 'ave yer?" The little cockney smiled pleasantly.

"I'm rather short myself," Tod answered. "It took all my cash to get these."

"That's all right, mitey. Wot boats 'ave ye bin in?"

"This is my first."

"Ye'fust? Oh, well—ye'll l'arn—ye'll Tarn. This bloomin' boat ain't so bad. Blimey, no! I took a pier-head jump wunst into a windjammer and came round the Horn in a 'owlin' gale. But I left 'er at Valparaiso—'it the chief mite over the 'ead with th' p'int ov a marlinspike and—"

"Shut up, Toppy! Can that stuff!" a voice suddenly broke in.

Tod turned to see the other seaman roll over in his bunk.

The little cockney threw his cigarette stub to the floor, dangerously near a pair of grimy socks. "That's all right, mitey," he went on, unperturbed. "Ye drunk too much ov that bloomin' stuff—that's why ye've got a 'eadache. Go t' sleep!" He showed his yellow fangs in a wide grin.

"Go t' sleep yerself, yer scurvy limejuicer," came a muffled reply.

At the words, a smooth flow of invective came from Toppy's lips. Tod was appalled by the language. It was his first contact with a cockney sailor, and the oaths, low and obscene, disconcerted him.

Presently, he climbed to the deck; he wanted to look over this ocean tramp which was to be his abode, perhaps, for months to come. The watchman was seated upon the forward hatch, smoking a pipe.

"Well, did yer get a bunk?" he greeted.

"Sure," Tod answered. "I'm all ready for work."

The watchman chuckled. "Don't be in a hurry, kid," he advised. "You'll git enough o' that before We hit the Caribbean.—Now, I wonder what that is."

He went toward the gangway as voices from the dock struck their ears. Two more of the Araby's crew were coming aboard, arm in arm and singing boisterously. They stumbled across the deck and disappeared into the forecastle.

"Well, let 'em enjoy themselves to-night," said the watchman philosophically; "something tells me that they won't enjoy this passage, they won't. No, sir!"

He seated himself again and conversed with Tod in low tones. He was entered on the ship's articles as John Nelson of Copenhagen, but he intimated that that wasn't his real name. He only went to sea when he had to—now and then. He hated the blasted sea.

"What?" said Tod. "I thought sailors loved the sea."

The old seaman took his pipe from his mouth and laughed uproariously. "Love it! Blast my hide! Say, kid, somebody's been filling you with opium. They all hates it. Hates it! I've been on barks and steamers for thirty years, and I ain't yet ever heard a feller say he liked it. No, sir, not one!"

He puffed slowly, then went on. "You never have a home; you travel around the globe, but you only see the dirty foreign ports with their water fronts all alike. This ain't the life for a feller. No; a farm's the place he orta be. Yes, sir, sometime I'm goin' ter quit it fer good and buy a nice little chicken farm in the hills where I can't never see the old ocean. Yes, sir, I am."

A step and a low laugh sounded behind them in the gloom. "Who're you giving advice to now, Nelson?" said a voice.

"Just this kid, sir—the new mess boy," replied the man.

From his tone and the way he jerked himself erect, Tod knew that it must be one of the ship's officers, the third mate, probably, whom the watchman addressed. Tod sprang to his feet also.

"You'll never leave the sea, Nelson, you know you won't. Yes, you think you hate it all right, but you'll never be able to leave.—Captain come aboard yet, Nelson?"

"No, sir. The chief engineer is in his room, sir, that's all."

The third mate turned to Tod. "This your first trip?"

"Yes, sir."

In the dim light Tod could see that the third officer of the Araby was little more than a youth himself, certainly not more than twenty-three or four.

"Well, come with me," went on the third mate. "We'll have a look-see round the deck. It wasn't so very long ago that I made my first voyage myself."

In straightforward tones, the boy was given his orders. He was to rise at eight bells of the middle watch—four o'clock in the morning—and report to the galley amidships. Later, he must wait on the officers in the cabin aft. Not a hard job, but he must be alert.

Tod's depression left him as he listened to the even tones of the young officer. It wasn't so bad after all.

When he returned to the forward main deck, he had gone over the Araby, superficially, at least. She was a three-thousand-ton cargo carrier of ancient build with derrick supports fore and aft and a single funnel. In the amidships section she carried the engineers' cabin and the cook's galley, with the latter opening in the alleyways next to the engine-room doorways. Above this was the boat deck. Aft was the poop, containing the master's and the first mate's quarters and the officers' saloon. Tod would doubtless get to know well these quarters later on.

He seated himself again upon the hatch. The night was cold and wet, but he did not care to descend to the stuffy forecastle and try to sleep. As the hours wore on, the crew returned in little groups. Most of them stumbled up the gangway and lurched across the deck to the forecastles. At eleven, the second mate came aboard. At midnight, the captain and the first mate arrived.

The watchman heard their voices on the pier "That's them," he whispered to Tod, "and both filled to the scuppers with booze."

The gangway creaked as the two men stumbled across. "Watchman!" It was the captain's voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Third mate aboard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Second mate aboard?"

"Yes, sir."

A pause ensued as Captain Ramsey unbuttoned his pilot coat, pushed back his cap from his red-rimmed eyes, and grasped the first mate for support. "Chief mate aboard?"

"Just come aboard," said the watchman without a blink.

The first mate, a gorilla-like man with a powerful chest and long arms, lurched to the rail and left the captain without support. "Can't ye see me here, sir?" he queried in hurt tones through his short black beard. "How'd ye ever git here if I hadn't brought yuh!"

"Th's a' right, Mr. Hawkes," hiccoughed the captain. "No harm intended. 'Pologize, Mr. Hawkes. Where's my cabin on this ship?"

"Aft, sir," said the watchman. "Here's the cabin boy, sir. Let him help you."

"Yeh, boy—give me a hand. I wish this was a bark. It was a sad day—when I left the sea—to take a berth in a steamer."

The watchman whispered into Tod's startled ear: "Get 'em to their cabins, kid. You'll have to do it in every port, I'm thinking."

"This way, sir," said Tod.

With the thin, swaying captain on one arm and the heavy-set first mate on the other, Tod went along the port alleyway, past the after hatches, to the poop. In the officers' saloon, where electric globes burned in a brass lamp overhead, the two men dropped into old red plush seats.

Tod, wiping the sweat from his brow, was immediately struck by the strange marine odour of the place. Its walls, at some remote time, had been painted white; it possessed a skylight that could only dimly have let in the light of day. The captain too, appeared to fit into the shadowy contours of the cabin. His gray wisps of hair dropped over his forehead; his weak mouth hung half open. The chief mate had risen and gazed with apparent scorn at his superior officer. He crossed to the table and steadied himself with a hairy paw upon the green baize cover. His round bearded face, flushed with liquor, had lost its look of friendliness. Upon his temple Tod saw a scar which, extending to his cheek, drew down as his dark eyes squinted in a manner that made the boy step backward.

"I ain't goin' ter eat ye," grunted the mate, his thick lower lip jutting outward. "Gi' me a hand, here. We got t' git the Old Man t' bed." He jerked his head toward a door behind him.

Tod opened the door. The light from the saloon lamp showed him a comfortable cabin containing a bed, a chair, and a desk. Together, he and the mate half lifted the captain within, laid him on his bed, and undressed him.

"Now we'll tuck him in nice," said the mate with a grin. "Nighty-night, Captain."

He waved Tod out and stepped into the saloon, closing the door sharply behind them.

"Is that all?" asked Tod. "I'm tired out—think I'll turn in."

From his position near the table the mate whirled, His thick lips writhed in anger; his eyes narrowed to points of glinting fire. "Think you'll turn in, do you?" he blurted. "You wait till I tell ye to."

His long arm reached forth and grasped Tod's shoulder in a grip of iron. Slowly, deliberately, the mate shook the boy, shook him till his teeth chattered and his eyes closed.

"Speak to the first officer like that, will yel I'll learn ye, ye wharf rat! Be 'spectful to yer officer. Git!"

He flung Tod from him with a sudden movement, and the boy went crashing against the cabin wall. The mate stood there with chin shot forward; the scar on his temple flamed crimson. Tod picked himself up.

"Don't speak till ye're spoken to—understan'? And call me 'sir.' Ye got to start right on this ship, or I'll throw ye overboard." He grinned broadly. "We'll lick ye into shape—the cook and I. Yeh, if the cook don't do it, I will. Now go crawl into yer donkey's breakfast, little boy." ...