On Sunday, five days before we sailed, the captain called Old Smith aft and formally offered him the billet as second mate. Old Smith refused to move out of the fo'c'sle, and came forward with a fat cigar in his teeth, saying, "The skipper's all right. He sure is all right."
After that we were too busy to think anything more of the vexed problem, being horsed about at bending sail and preparing for sea. On the eve of our departure we were sitting on the fo'c'sle head watching the crowded harbor, the comings and goings from the men o' war and transports, and listening to the bugle calls. We had washed up after the day's work, and the mess cooks had gone to the galley for the kids.
"We'll sleep our last night in, tonight," ventured Frenchy, as we perched on the heel of the starboard cathead. It was a thought that came to all of us.
"Grub O!" called Fred from the space about the fore pin rail, where both watches ate together while in port. We sat around the kids, under the tall gear of the foremast rising overhead, the faint peppering of stars showing between the yards as we began our supper.
"Here comes the mate," said Martin, who was perched on the short ladder leading to the fo'c'sle head, from the port side of the house.
"Wot of it, let him come."
Presently Mr. Zerk stood in the gangway looking at us, he bulked big, and smoked a strong cigar. This was the first time he had ever intruded upon our meals during our stay in port.
"Where's the second mate?" he asked pleasantly.