The curtain parted and the lads saw before them a kindly faced man, whose weather-beaten features testified to many months of exposure to wind and sun on the high seas.
“Come in, lads,” he said. “Have you your papers with you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Dan, extending their record papers.
“All clear,” said the master-at-arms after a brief glance over the documents. “The Training School gives you a special good-conduct mention, I see. That is well. Follow me.”
Once more the process of diving through narrow passageways, down iron companionways, with chains for hand rails, turning sharp corners, trumping their elbows on projections and the like, was gone through with.
“What are they trying to do with us?” whispered Sam.
“I don’t know.”
“Guess they’re trying out our wind to see whether we are any good or not. This certainly is a sprint. If they keep it up much longer I’ll change my mind again and go ashore.”
Just then the master-at-arms rapped on the casing of another door, and, at command, entered, motioning the boys to follow.
They were now standing before the ship’s writer. The writer, after looking over their papers, entered their record in a large book on his desk. Following this he asked them many questions about their past life, going over much the same ground that the recruiting officer had done when they enlisted in New York. After satisfying himself on all points, the writer said: