Presently a big clock somewhere abaft the boilers struck the hour of three, and a tall, lank, black-whiskered man came out into the light of the lower deck and began to arouse men sitting or lying behind the rows of cordwood. "It is three o'clock," I heard him snarl. "Git a move on you! Light the fires under them boilers!"
Three or four men sprang to obey the command, and another went up to the hurricane deck to arouse the cook and his helpers.
"Hi, there, mate, throw out the gangplank and let us aboard!" I shouted.
Black whiskers jumped as if he had been shot and dodged behind a boiler; the men crouched in the shelter of the cordwood.
"Don't be afraid and don't shoot at us again. Let us aboard!" I said.
"Who be you?" the mate shouted from his shelter. "Git down there into the light and show yourself!"
I told Pitamakan to remain where he was, and, going down to the edge of the shore where the light streamed upon me, I explained that I was Thomas Fox, that I had an Indian with me, and that I had a letter to deliver into the captain's care.
"Sounds fishy to me," the mate began; then from the upper deck a deep voice called, "Slim, you let that boy and his friend on board! I know him!" And to me, "Hello, Thomas, my boy! I'm dressing. Come up to my room as soon as you get aboard and tell me all about it!"
"That I will, Mr. Page," I answered. I knew as soon as he spoke that it was Henry Page, long a pilot for the American Fur Company, and now, of course, piloting boats for the independents.
Out came the gangplank. I called to Pitamakan, and we went aboard and straight up to Mr. Page, while the mate and his men stared after us. In a few words I explained why we were there.