The Russian consulate of Yokohama, in which we “beachcombers” slept
Japanese types in a temple inclosure
Dusk was settling over the harbor when the launch bumped against the ship’s side. The rain had ceased. Several seamen, sprawling about the forward deck, sprang to their feet as I poked my head over the bulwarks.
“Hooray!” bellowed a stentorian voice, “A new shipmate, lads. Turn out an’—”
The rest was lost in the resulting uproar. Sailors in every stage of undress stumbled out of the forecastle; pimple-faced apprentices bobbed up from amidships; even “Chips” and the sailmaker lost their dignity and hurried forward, and in the twinkling of an eye I was surrounded by all hands and the cook.
The “doctor” gave me leave to dry my uniform in the galley, and I retired to the forecastle to spin my yarn to the excited crew. A general laugh greeted the account of my meeting with the captain.
“A stowaway, is it!” cried one of the seamen. “There’d be more truth in sayin’ you was shanghaied. That’s a favorite game with the old man to cut down expenses an’ square ’imself with the owners. Sign you on! Of course ’e could if ’e’d wanted. No damn fear! An’ ’im five ’ands short. Hell, if this was a civilized port not a clearance paper would ’e get until ’e’d signed on the crew the articles calls for. Howsomever, ’ere you are, an’ it’s no use kickin’ after you’re ’ung. But it’s a ragged deal t’ ’ave t’ work your passage ’ome on a windjammer.”
“This tub?” he went on, in answer to my request for information. “Aye, when I’ve lighted up, I’ll gi’ you ’er story in a pipeful. She’s the Glenalvon, square-rigged ship an’ English built, as you can see wi’ your eyes shut, 1927 tons, solid enough, being all iron but ’er decks an’ the blocks; but that’s all’s can be said for ’er. This crowd shipped on ’er out o’ Newcastle two year ago with coal for Iquique, loaded saltpetre for Yokohama, and she’s bound now for Royal Roads in ballast—to load wheat for ’ome, like ’nough. With a cargo she’s a good sailor, an’ ’as made the States in twenty-four days; but with only mud in ’er bottom an’ foul wi’ barnacles there’s no knowin’. Maybe a month.”
“Countin’ yourself there’s thirty-three on board, one of ’em a woman an’ two of ’em goats. To begin with, there’s the skipper. Ten t’ one you took ’im for a ‘Christer.’ They all does ashore, but ’e’s a hell of a way from bein’ one afloat. He’s a bluenoser named Andrews, an’ the biggest —— that ever come out o’ Halifax. Mind you don’t fall foul of ’im.”