“Just as a matter of form, Captain,” replied the ensign crisply. “Won’t take a minute.”
For a space, the fat skipper eyed the other suspiciously. “Ach! All right,” he exclaimed at last. “Gum on! Dis vay an’ pe tarn qvick apout id!”
Rolling like a barge in a gale, the Dutchman led the way across the deck and into his disorderly cabin under the bridge. Then, rummaging among papers and letters, he drew out a package snapped together with rubber bands and handed it to the ensign.
“Seem to be all right,” commented Mr. Pauling, as he glanced over the officer’s shoulder with Rawlins beside him. “‘Steamship Van Doerck, 11,345 tons, general cargo, Rotterdam for St. Thomas, Hirschfelt, master and owner.’ Don’t see anything suspicious there, Rawlins. Last cleared from Curacao. Health and port papers O. K. Guess your hunch was wrong this time.”
Rawlins scratched his head and looked sheepish, but there was still a questioning, puzzled expression in his eyes. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but I’d like to have a look at his crew. Just ask him to line ’em up on deck, Ensign.”
At first, the Dutchman vehemently objected, but finally, with a muttered curse in his native tongue at the pigheadedness of the Yankees, he ordered his second officer to summon all hands on deck.
Carefully Rawlins, Mr. Pauling and the ensign went along the line of dirty faces, checking them off by name in accordance with the ship’s papers, but they were all there, no more, no less.
“No use looking under hatches,” declared the ensign who began to feel that he had made a fool of himself. “They haven’t been up for a week, I’ll swear.” Then, as an afterthought, he added sarcastically, “Don’t suppose you’d care to search the engine room and bunkers?”
“I’ll say I will!” exclaimed Rawlins, and without another word hurried aft.
A few minutes later he reappeared, grimy, perspiring and greasy.