Bombay is a large shipping port and it appeared, on first impression, to be a fertile field from which two semi-stranded roamers could obtain passage. We made a thorough canvass of the water front in search of a job. Richardson would strike the skipper of one ship while I tried my luck with another, or we would board the same boat together, one of us interview the captain while the other placed the case before the steward. We hung out at the Seamen's Institute, skippers' clubs, water front saloons, sailors' rest houses and about the docks. It was uphill work for we received little encouragement and, often, short and rough treatment at the hands of the hardened old seamen. We didn't give up our search until we had visited all the vessels in the harbour—which took up the greater part of three days. We could find nothing. It was impossible for us to compete with Oriental, South African and Hindu labour on these ships, not to mention the practical impossibility of living on their diet and in their unsanitary quarters. We finally and reluctantly gave up hope of getting out as toilers and decided to do the next best thing. We began our campaign over again and visited all the freighters, asking the captains how much they wanted in money to take us to the Canal. Many of them were insulted at such a proposal. Some regretfully said that their owners had rigid rules against taking any one. Others wanted more than our twenty-dollar limit.
Our luck had been pretty tough and was due to change. We boarded the steamer Levanzo, an old-time Italian freighter, which had ploughed the sea for centuries, if her looks indicated anything. We marched straight up to the bridge where the old skipper was standing, smoking a pipe with an odour strong enough to kill a hog.
"Do you speak English?" I enquired.
"A little," was the reply.
"Which way are you going?" was my second question.
"To Napoli," said the Italian.
"When do you get under way?"
"To-morrow afternoon at one o'clock."
"What do you want to take the two of us through the Canal?"