As he looked about for a boat to take him out to the five ships riding at anchor, Paul Jones's eye fell on a tall, lithe young man who was just in the act of tying the painter of a whaler's yawl to one of the wharf timbers.
Paul Jones stepped briskly up to him. "Pardon me, my fine fellow," he said, "but a guinea is yours if you will row me out to the larger of yon vessels, the Alfred, where I am in urgent service."
The young man wheeled around, displaying features unmistakably those of an Indian, but of an unusually intelligent composition. His coal-black eyes swept over his questioner. "I, Wannashego, will take the white sea-soldier," he replied in excellent English.
Without further ado, Paul Jones sprang nimbly down into the boat. Its owner cast loose and followed.
As his companion pulled lustily away in the direction of the American ships, Paul Jones sat studying the rower. When and where had this redskin of the American forest picked up such splendid address? What marvelous trick of fate had possessed him of such skill with the white man's oars?
"You are an Indian, are you not?" inquired the lieutenant presently.
"An Indian of Narragansett tribe," was the proud reply.
"Where did you learn to handle a boat in this manner?"
"On whaling cruises, sir."
"You belong to one of these whaling-ships at the wharves, then?"