“While you were asleep I took the liberty of reading your papers. Here they are,� and with all the grace in the world, Terror Carson handed the bewildered young engineer a package and a wallet which had been abstracted from his inner pocket.
“Now we will go on deck,� said Terror Carson, “and I’ll show you the scene of your future labors. You will berth and have your meals in the cabin and not with the men.�
Raynor felt grateful for this at least, for he judged the crew of a craft like the Polly Ann could be little better than a lot of desperadoes. But he was not prepared for the array of villainous, hard-bitten countenances he saw when they reached the deck. The schooner was under full sail and racing northward like a swift sea bird.
Except for the man at the helm, and a short, stocky man who was standing by him and gazing up at the rigging, the men were all lounging about, some squatting under the weather bulwarks. The short, stocky man proved to be the mate, Mr. Wiggins, a real “down-east bucko,� Terror Carson described him as being. The midship decks were piled with lashed down dories and from the stern davits hung a smart whale boat.
Aft of the foremast was a squat, white house with an iron pipe projecting from it. Terror Carson led the way there with Raynor at his heels. The men’s eyes followed them, some with scowls and some with curiosity.
From the door of the galley, or ship’s kitchen, for that is what the white structure was, there issued a cloud of steam as they approached. Suddenly, in the midst of the volume of vapor, there appeared the round, good-natured, freckled face of a lad of about Raynor’s own age. His head, of bright red hair, was uncovered, and he wore a very dirty apron about his waist.
“Noddy Nipper,� said Terror Carson, nodding toward Raynor, “here’s our assistant cook. Make him work, and if there’s any nonsense report him to me. That’s all.�
With an upward look at the sails, he turned on the heel of his big sea-boots and strode off aft, leaving the half-stupefied Raynor staring at the red-headed youth.
CHAPTER IX: A JOKE ON POMPEY.
“So, youse is de guy what was floating about on a chunk uv ice tryin’ ter be pals wid a poley bear?� said Noddy, with an accent that betrayed him at once as being from the Bowery, or near it.