“Morning h’inspection,” he explained, in a husky whisper; “they’ll be back on the port side directly they’ve h’inspected the poop. The little cuss’s the old man, Cap Harris, commodore in the Nyval Reserve. ’E’s all right.”
“Hope he lives out the voyage,” I muttered.
“The fat, jolly chap’s the chief steward,” went on “Peggy.” “Best man on the ship. The long un’s the doctor.”
A stowaway takes no precedence over any other apparatus on board ship that needs regulating. After their reappearance in the waist the officers halted several times within a few feet of me to scrutinize some article of the steamer’s equipment. When the scuppers had been ordered cleaned and the pump had been pronounced in proper sanitary condition, the mate turned to the captain and pointed an accusing finger at me:—
“There he is, sir.”
“Ah,” said the skipper. “What was your object, my man, in stowing yourself away on this vessel?”
I began the story I had attempted to tell the first officer. The captain heard it all without interruption.
“Yes, I know,” he mused, when I had finished. “Port Saïd is a very unfortunate place to be left without funds. But why did you not come on board and ask permission to work your passage?”
What stowaway has not heard that formula, even though the inquirer has refused that permission a dozen times during the voyage?
“I did, sir!” I cried, “That’s just what I did! I brought a letter to the chief steward. That’s how I come on board, sir.”