No, this was no wasp let in on them by Barrett or the Club boys. The mind of Candon, as revealed to Hank, was as free from crookedness as the eyes through which it looked, and on most topics from the League of Nations to Ella Wheeler Wilcox, it was sound. And it was not unlike the mind of Hank. It was self-educated and their enthusiasms, from the idea of Universal Brotherhood to the idea of the sanctity of womanhood, matched, mostly.
Candon, from what one could gather, had been a rolling stone, like Hank, but he gave little away about himself and he was quite frank about it.
“I’d just as soon forget myself,” said he. “I’ve been in a good many mix-ups and I’ve missed a fortune twice through my own fault, but I’ve come through with all my teeth and no stomach worries and we’ll leave it at that.”
Barrett’s stores came on board and were stowed, and Hank, through a boarding-house keeper, got his crew, four Chinamen all of the same tong, all Lees, and bossed by a gentleman rejoicing in the name of Lee Wong Juu. Champagne Charley, Hank labeled him. They came tripping on board with their chests the night before starting, vanished like shades down the foc’sle hatch and were seen no more.
Hank, standing on the deck with George, heaved a sigh of contentment. “Well, that’s done,” said he. “There’s nothing more to take on board and we’re all ready for the pull out in the morning.”
“What time do you propose to start?” asked the other.
“Sunup. Barrett has got it into his head, somehow, we’re going at noon. I didn’t tell you, but I got wind he’d arranged for a tug with a brass band to lead us out and josh us. Can you see his face when he finds us gone?”
They went below where the cabin lamp was lit, with Candon reading a newspaper under it.
“The Chinks are come,” said Hank, taking his seat at the table, and fetching out his pipe. “There’s nothing more to come in but the mud-hook. Well, how do you feel, now we’re starting?”