“You’re down for lost, captain,” continued the newcomer. “She reported you aground on Saratoga Spit.”
“Aground hell!” roared our beloved commander, “Though we’ve struck everything but ground, and no bloody mistake.”
All night long the tug strained at the hawser, while the second mate, dreading the loss of his reputation as a “hazer,” called upon us to trim the bare yards each time the light breeze shifted a point. In the afternoon we dropped anchor in a quiet cove close off a wooded shore decorated by several wigwams, and the “old man,” being rowed ashore, returned at dusk with a side of fresh beef and a box of plug tobacco.
The next morning I turned to with the crew as usual and toiled from daylight to dark. No hint of relief having reached me by the next afternoon, I marched aft and asked for my release.
“What’s your hurry?” demanded the skipper. “I’ll sign you on at full wages and you can make the trip home in her.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” I answered, “but I’m home now, once I get ashore.”
“Aye!” snorted the captain, “And in three days you’ll be on the beach and howling to sign on again. I can’t sign you off here, anyway, without paying port dues. Turn to with the crew until she’s dumped her ballast and tied up in Tacoma, and I’ll give you your board-of-trade discharge.”
I protested against such a delay as forcibly as the circumstances permitted.
“Huh! That’s it!” growled the master. “Every man jack of you with the price of a drink coming to him puts his helm hard down if a shift of work turns up. Well, to-morrow’s Sunday. I’ll get some money of the agents when I go ashore and pay you off on Monday morning. But I’ll have to set you down on the log as a deserter.”
“Very good, sir,” I answered.