The Shipping Master looked over the desk. “Was that the Helen Starbuck?”
“Yes, sir!”
The official smiled and observed to the captain, “I reckon, Cap’en, that a lad that has made a voyage from the Coast to Halifax in a ninety-five-ton schooner is a sailor.”
The master nodded. “Can you steer?”
“Of course, but sail only.”
“We-e-ell,” the captain gave him a searching glance, “I guess you’ll do. You look bright. I’ll sign you as an A.B. How’s that?” McKenzie replied in acceptance.
“Alright, Mister, sign him up!” Then to Donald he said, “Get your clothes and get down aboard the ship right away. We’re ready to sail. Hurry now.”
Donald had only time to run to his hotel, collect his sea kit and pay the bill. Judson was out, but he scribbled a note to him and left it on the dressing table. “Confound it!” he muttered, as he walked down to the dock. “I didn’t expect to get hustled out like this. And I was looking forward so much to that tea to-night. Now it’s all off and I haven’t even got a chance to telephone her. Hang the luck!”
That evening he was eating his tea in the starboard fo’c’sle of a big freighter, in company with an all-nation gang of deck-hands, and the place was swinging to the roll of the off-shore swell, while the shores of Nova Scotia were fading away in the dim distance astern as the propeller drove the steamer for Glasgow and his mother.