"I will take you for sixty rupees (twenty dollars) each, I think," he said after a minute's reflection.
"All right."
The captain explained that we must sign on as members of the crew, for he was not allowed to take passengers and we should have to be accounted for both at departure and arrival. We signed up without delay; Richardson as assistant cook and I as deck hand.
Although the boat was not scheduled to leave until one o'clock the following afternoon we were instructed to be on hand at ten in the morning for a quarantine inspection. It is a regulation that the crews of all ships leaving Indian ports have to be examined before the authorities will issue clearing papers, thus insuring that no Indian disease will be transmitted to Europe. Richardson and I lined up at the appointed hour the next day with the rest of the crew and filed by the doctors while they gave us a farcical examination.
This proceeding lasted only a few minutes and at its completion we were driven through the quarantine sheds to the wharf. It was then two hours before our ship was to leave and Richardson returned to town to bid farewell to our friends who had entertained us. I took all the luggage and went to the boat.
At one o'clock, the hour that the Levanzo was to get under way, Richardson had not returned. The British quarantine doctor issued an order for the crew to come off the ship and line up so as to file on one at a time. He beckoned to me and I came down the gangway and fell in at the rear.
"Where's your friend?" the doctor asked, abruptly, addressing me.
"He's not here," I replied with an attempted evasion of the question, not wishing to divulge the fact that my partner had broken quarantine.
"He has broken quarantine and can't go on this ship," the officer said, angrily. "Do you want to go without him?"